Forty-Three
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I’d like to acknowledge my ever-patient critique group: Rose Marie, Anjali, Kate, Lois, P.J., Susan, Krysteen and Sheila, for their talent, wisdom and courage to sample a number of culinary experiments. I’m deeply grateful to my agent, friend and champion Meg Ruley, and to Martha Keenan and Dianne Moggy of MIRA Books. Molto grazie to Mike Sharpe of Four Swallows Restaurant on Bainbridge Island, Washington, for patiently answering my many questions. And finally, a very special thank-you to my Uncle Tommy, who has no idea why I’m thanking him: you’ve never heard the sound of my voice, but you’ve always had my love, admiration and respect.
PART ONE
Antipasto
Antipasto: The Italian word for a snack served before a meal. These are dishes to pique the appetite, not quench it. Antipasto literally means “before the meal.” Mamma used to say it was the anti-noise course because my brothers, Robert and Sal, would be so busy stuffing their faces that they’d forget to complain about being hungry.
Caponata
This has an excellent flavor and makes a very nice presentation on a perfect leaf of lettuce, not that Robert and Sal ever gave a hoot about presentation. And it’s even quite low in calories, not that guys care about that, either. Serve this as a traditional antipasto with a good crusty Italian bread and a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio.
Peel and dice an eggplant, toss with salt, put in a colander and drain for at least a half hour. Then heat up a heavy skillet and add ¼ cup olive oil, a small onion, chopped, and a stick of celery, also chopped. Add the eggplant and sauté. Finally, add three chopped tomatoes, three minced anchovies, a pinch of sugar, ¼ cup wine vinegar and a spoonful of capers (the best ones come from Pantelleria Island). If your family likes olives, add some of those, too, along with a pinch of red pepper flakes. Simmer for ten minutes. Cool, then store overnight in a glass container. For a smoother spreading consistency, you can whirl the mixture in the food processor, but don’t overdo it. Things that are too smooth lose their character.
One
Rosa Capoletti knew that tonight was the night. Jason Aspoll was going to pop the question. The setting was perfect—a starlit summer evening, an elegant seaside restaurant, the sounds of crystal and silver gently clinking over quiet murmurs of conversation. At Jason’s request, the Friday night trio was playing “Lovetown,” and a few dreamy couples swayed to the nostalgic melody.
Candlelight flickered over their half-empty champagne flutes, illuminating Jason’s endearingly nervous face. He was sweating a little, and his eyes darted with barely suppressed trepidation. Rosa could tell he wanted to get this right.
She knew he was wondering, Should I reach across the table? Go down on one knee, or is that too hokey?
Go for it, Jason, she wanted to urge him. Nothing’s too hokey when it’s true love.
She also knew the ring lay nestled in a black velvet box, concealed in the inner pocket of his dinner jacket, right next to his racing heart.
Come on, Jason, she thought. Don’t be afraid.
And then, just as she was starting to worry that he’d chickened out, he did it. He went down on one knee.
A few nearby diners shifted in their chairs to look on fondly. Rosa held her breath while his hand stole inside his jacket.
The music swelled. He took the box from his pocket and she saw his mouth form the words: Will you marry me?
He held out the ring box, opening the hinged lid to reveal the precious offering. His hand shook a little. He still didn’t know for sure if she would have him.
Silly man, thought Rosa. Didn’t he know the answer would be—
“Table seven sent back the risotto,” said Leo, the headwaiter, holding a thick china bowl in front of Rosa.
“Leo, for crying out loud,” she said, craning her neck to see past him. “Can’t you tell I’m busy here?” She pushed him aside in time to watch her best friend, Linda Lipschitz, stand up from the table and fling her arms around Jason.
“Yes,” Linda said, although from across the dining room Rosa had to read her lips. “Yes, absolutely.”
Atta girl, thought Rosa, her eyes misting.
Leo followed her gaze to the embracing couple. “Sweet,” he said. “Now what about my risotto?”
“Take it back to the kitchen,” Rosa said. “I knew the mango chutney was a bad idea, anyway, and you can tell Butch I said so.” She let Leo deal with it as she walked across the dining room. Linda was wreathed in smiles and tears. Jason looked positively blissful and, perhaps, weak with relief.
“Rosa, you won’t believe what just happened,” Linda said.
Rosa dabbed at her eyes. “I think I can guess.”
Linda held out her hand, showing off a glittering marquise-cut diamond in a gold cathedral setting.
“Oh, honey.” Rosa hugged Linda and gave Jason a kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations, you two,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.”
She’d helped Jason pick out the ring, told him Linda’s size, selected the music and menu, ordered Linda’s favorite flowers for the table. They’d set the scene in every possible way. Rosa was good at things like this—creating events around the most special moments in people’s lives.
Other people’s lives.
Linda was babbling, already making plans. “We’ll drive over to see Jason’s folks on Sunday, and then get everyone together to set a date—”
“Slow down, my friend,” Rosa said with a laugh. “How about you dance with your fiancé?”
Linda turned to Jason, her eyes shining. “My fiancé. God, I love the sound of that.”
Rosa gave the couple a gentle shove toward the dance floor. As he pulled Linda into his arms, Jason looked over her shoulder and mouthed a thank-you to Rosa. She waved, dabbed at her eyes again and headed for the kitchen. Back to work.
She was smiling as she crossed the nonskid mat and entered the kitchen through the swinging doors. Quiet elegance gave way to controlled chaos. Glaring lights and flaming grills illuminated the crush of prep workers, line cooks and the sous-chef hurrying back and forth between stainless steel counters. Waiters tapped their feet, checking orders before stepping through the soundproofed doors that protected the serenity of the dining room from male shouts and clattering dishes.
The revved-up energy of the kitchen was fueled by testosterone, but Rosa knew how to hold her own here. She walked through a gauntlet of aproned men with huge knives or vats of boiling water, pivoting around each other in their nightly ballet. A stream from a hose roared against the dishwashing sink, and hot drafts from the Imperial grill licked like dragon’s breath at precisely 1010°F.
“Wait,” she said as a prep worker passed by with a plated steak that had been
