The Queen of Minor Disasters (11 page)

 Mario stands and throws his
napkin on the table. He moves to leave the table.

“Mario, sit down,” my father
says standing up but my brother doesn’t listen and walks right out of the
restaurant. My father follows him.

The rest of us just sit there
in shock, and I’m pretty sure not even this dessert is going to make me feel
better.

Yields 4 servings

This is a simple version—your
life is complicated enough. But trust me ladies, you’ll love this one.

1 stick butter

1/2 cup light brown sugar,
packed

4 firm bananas (peeled and cut
into 1/4” rounds)

1/4 cup dark rum

1)
     
Melt butter in a large saucepan over medium heat.

2)
     
Add brown sugar and stir until dissolved.

3)
     
Add bananas and cook until caramelized (about 5
minutes).

4)
     
Add the rum and, using a long lighter, ignite the
flambé. (Be careful, the flame will rise pretty high.)

5)
     
Let the flame die down on its own, then spoon the
bananas in individual bowls and serve with vanilla ice cream.

1)
                 
Had a fiancé

2)
                 
Had a job.

But since both prospects are
out the window (It’s been three weeks and Drew hasn’t called once. And to make
matters worse, my parents really are selling La Cucina, which means that come
Labor Day when Lorenzo’s closes, I’m jobless), I’ve hit freak-out mode.

           
I just keep telling myself to calm down.

There are
plenty
of jobs I can do.

Plenty.

I mean, I went to college for
God’s sake. That has to count for
something
.

I’ve been trying to think of
this rationally, once the initial shock wore off and all. Pietro and Dante have
made me see that this is a
good
thing.

An
opportunity
.

Granted, neither one of them
depends on the restaurant like I do, but there’s no need to panic. I mean, if
my brothers can get decent jobs so can I.

Maybe I can get a job at
Pietro’s law firm. I know I’m not
exactly
a
lawyer, but I’m sure I can do something in the office. Like file. And type
things.

I’d probably be very good at
that. And I’d get to wear classy suits and kitten heels.

Not that I really like suits
or kitten heels (they make my legs look really short).

And I’ve never actually worked
in an office. Or filed anything.

Hum.

Maybe I can be a teacher like
Dante. That way I’ll have summers off to come back to work at Lorenzo’s.

If Lucy can do it, I certainly
can. And who cares that St. Iggy’s is all boys. I’m used to that. I have four
brothers.

Yes, perfect. I’ll become a
teacher.

I can even ask Luce what to
write on my résumé. I’m sure she’ll find some way to finagle it.

It’ll be great. Luce and I can
have lunch together in the teacher’s lounge every day! And I can get a cute
pair of glasses (not the matronly librarian kind). Of course, I’ll have to
practice my handwriting on a chalk board, but there’s plenty of time to do
that.

My brothers were right. This
is a good thing. An
opportunity
.

I just wish Mario would see it
the same way.

He hasn’t said a word to Dad
since Father’s Day, and I worry that their relationship is permanently damaged.
Lorenzo and I talk about them a lot, and even though he’s upset as well, he
respects my parents’ wishes.

“It’s their place,” he says,
and I agree.

Lorenzo is surprisingly not
that worried. He actually seems happy about La Cucina closing. He’s been
wanting to open a small restaurant in Philadelphia, but hasn’t been able to
leave La Cucina. He’s thinking that this is his big opportunity. He even drove
back to Philly to start talking with real estate agents.

Again, my twin is showing me
up. But that doesn’t matter. I’m going to be a teacher or something.

About a week after Father’s
Day, my mother calls to tell me the exact date of the closing. La Cucina will
officially close on September 30, exactly three months from tomorrow. It’s
impossible for me to think that we won’t have another Christmas there, or that
I won’t be working on New Year’s Eve.

Lucy tried to be optimistic
about it and even suggested we go up to New York City for New Year’s this year.
But as much as I complained about working all those years, I love ringing in
the New Year with a restaurant full of regulars wearing cardboard party hats and
throwing paper streamers in the air. They were like an extension of the family,
and partying at some lame bar in New York just doesn’t feel right.

To avoid thinking about La
Cucina and Drew, I throw myself into work and with the Fourth of July right
around the corner, that’s pretty easy to do. This year, the holiday falls on a
Wednesday, which we thought would be bad for business, but as it turns out,
it’s ideal. Both this weekend and next are jam-packed. It’s nice to know that
we’re in high demand, but I do wish we had some slots open, since I’m the one
who has to deal with the phone calls.

 Since today is Friday and the
kick off to a busy weekend, I’m here earlier than normal. I don’t mind it
though; there’s something peaceful about an empty restaurant. And I get full
range of the kitchen, even though I almost always make a salad. Did you really
think I eat restaurant food every day? I’d be 800 pounds by Labor Day.

 In the kitchen, I’m in a
zone, dicing roasted red peppers and tomatoes to add to my salad bowl. I’ve
been dreaming of an arugula salad with jumbo lump crabmeat all morning. Just as
I walk towards the fridge to get the crabmeat, I hear a knock on the back door.

“Come in,” I yell stooped over
by the fridge. Usually we don’t get deliveries until a little later, but I can
check the order and sign for it, no problem.

“Hey Stella.”

I turn towards the door and
almost drop my salad bowl. Roberto Lancetti is standing in the doorway carrying
a large bag of bread. My eyes flicker over him because, even though I’m sure
it’s him he looks completely different than the Roberto that I remember, or the
one I imagined. The Roberto standing before me looks confident and strong, his
skin is sun kissed, his hair is a controlled mess, and his smile teases me. A
large scar travels diagonally from the left corner of his bottom lip to the
base of his chin, making him look rougher than I remember. And sexier. For a
minute, our eyes lock and I forget all about Drew. If I were comparing the two
on looks alone, Roberto would win, hands down.

Not
that I’m interested or anything; obviously, I have Drew (sort of). Besides,
Roberto is so not my type. He might be smart, but if you ask me, he totally
wasted his talents. I mean honestly, a PhD in Latin? I can see him now,
standing in front of a classroom wearing ripped jeans and Chuck Taylors, trying
desperately to be a non-conformist while teaching a bunch of half-wit college
freshman how to conjugate verbs. It’s a shame really, because Roberto is the
heir to the Lancetti bread company, which supplies the best Italian rolls to
restaurants in the tri-state area. He’d be walking on easy street.

Now Drew, on the other hand,
went to Wharton for his MBA and, given the opportunity that Roberto has, would
take the bread company and make it a global sensation. They’d be eating that
bread in China, Chile, and even Italy for God’s sake.

  “I have your delivery.” He
smiles and places the bag on the work station. He reaches around to hug me and
I awkwardly reciprocate. His arms pull me in close enough to smell the cologne
on his neck. It is a mixture of spicy musk and lemon, which smells both exotic
and familiar at the same time.

“You look good,” he says
pulling away.  Yeah right. I smile but can feel my face getting hot. I look
down at myself. I’m wearing blue running shorts, a yellow tank top, and purple
flip-flops, the official uniform of a fifth grader. I couldn’t be more un-sexy
if I tried. And the worst part is, my scoop neck Theory dress is hanging in the
waiters’ station; I was going to change as soon as I finished lunch. Not that
it matters.

The only comfort I have is the
fact that he’s wearing a similar outfit of dirty Nikes, a white t-shirt, and
yellow mesh shorts. Still, on him it somehow works.

 “Come in,” I wave. “Do you
still need that reservation for this weekend?” I ask, remembering that he never
called back.

Roberto makes his way into the
kitchen and looks at me again. “Na, she cancelled on me.”

 “Sorry.”

He keeps looking at me but
doesn’t say anything.

“So, what have you been up to?”
I ask because I’m suddenly flustered and can’t think of anything else to say.

“I just got back from Rome. I
finished my PhD actually.”

“In what?” I ask though I
already know.

“Translation. I translate
ancient poetry.” He smirks at himself, and I can’t tell if he’s cocky or what.

“Sounds interesting.”

“Yeah, I’d tell you all about
it, but it’d probably put you to sleep.” He laughs. “What are you making?”

“A salad,” I reply, and before
I can stop myself I ask if he wants one.

“Only if I can help.” He grabs
an apron off the rack and ties it on. I can’t help but laugh at him.

“What? You don’t think I can
cook, Stella? I was in the kitchen before you were even born.”

“Ok Dad,” I mutter and stick
my head in the fridge. He laughs. Lorenzo put the crabmeat on the bottom shelf,
right next to the sauce. “Do you like crabmeat?” I ask.

“I thought we were having
salad.”

I close the door of the
fridge. “What kind of operation do you think this is Lancetti? We’re in a
restaurant, I’m not going to give you some mixed greens and call it a lunch.”

He laughs. “Ok, get the
crabmeat. Got any filet mignon?”

“Ha ha.” I walk towards the
stove and grab a sauté pan from the rack on top. I turn up the heat, pour some
olive oil in the pan, and once it gets hot, throw in the garlic.

“Not too much garlic, I have
more deliveries to get to.”

“Oh, and I guess you pick up a
lot of ladies in your bread truck?”

Roberto laughs.

“Make yourself useful and
plate those salads.” I sound just like Lorenzo in the middle of service.

Once the crabmeat is done
sautéing I spoon it over the two salad plates and drizzle a little balsamic
reduction on top.