across the street—“makes the best roast pork.”
“So what do you do with all the stuff you buy?”
“What do you think I do with it? Cook. It’s how I unwind, though it’s gotten kind of serious. Last year I even went to Italy and took a two-week cooking class. It was great.”
Funny how I’d thought of him as someone who came to see Sal, never considering his existence outside the store, never wondering what he did with all the pasta, olive oil, and cheese he purchased. It made me feel even worse about what I’d written.
Once again he seemed to read my mind. “It’s so odd, the writer not mentioning you in the article. I hope you know you’re the first outsider Sal’s ever hired. It’s quite a compliment. And you’ve lasted! What has it been, four months? I think that guy missed a pretty interesting story.”
At this rate I was going to have to confess. I stood up quickly. “Gottago. I’ve taken a longer break than I’m supposed to, and the shop’s insane today. All those new customers.”
“Yeah,” he said, “that Bill what’s-his-name has a lot to answer for. Guess I’ll see you next week, Wilhelmina. With any luck the turmoil will have died down.”
Walking back, I thought what an odd conversation it had been. I still didn’t know his name, and neither of us had asked any of the usual questions: What do you do, where do you live, where did you go to school? Prying into people’s personal lives always felt awkward to me, but he seemed like one of those easygoing people who could ask anyone anything. I guess he just didn’t care to know.
WHEN I GOT BACK to Fontanari’s the line was longer, the tourists growing more irritable as evening came on. Sal’s mood was still volatile, and I watched him warily.
“Next!” I called. A thin blonde, extravagantly made up, stared suspiciously at me. She nudged her companion. “I don’t know who this girl is.” She pointed to Theresa. “But that one must be the sister. And that one”—the finger moved on to Rosalie—“is the wife. Let’s wait until one of the Fontanaris is free.”
I glanced uneasily at Sal, hoping he hadn’t heard, but he was putting his knife down and brushing off his hands. “Excuse me,” he apologized to the customer he’d been serving. Then he came and draped an arm around my shoulder. “This is a family establishment,” he said, making sure his voice carried. Heads turned. He gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “And back here we are all Fontanaris.” He winked at me and retreated to his corner of the counter. Rosalie crossed her arms over her chest and nodded, claiming me for her own.
The Mania of the Moment
A S ROSALIE HAD PREDICTED, THE TOURISTS MOVED ON TO THE next hot destination, and Fontanari’s glided back into its familiar orbit. Weekend after weekend, Gennaro selected special cheeses for his mama. That summer Jane went upstate, where she unearthed her grandmother’s recipe box, and she began showing up with long-forgotten dishes for Sal, Theresa, and Rosalie to taste. Mr. Complainer came too; now when I waited on him, I asked how he was planning to use the pecorino or the expensive imported San Marzano tomatoes he was purchasing.
“Any suggestions?” he’d ask, but I’d just shake my head and say, “You’re the cook.” I had no desire to broach the “I don’t cook” conversation with him.
“Why won’t you give him a chance?” Rosalie asked after witnessing one of these exchanges.
“He doesn’t want one.”
Rosalie’s lips quivered, holding back her words, but she said nothing. She was convinced that I was missing an opportunity. I had thought, after the day of the dumpling, that there might be something there, but he never sought me out again.
It was okay; I was very busy. By the time I’d been at
Delicious!
for a year, running Jake’s office had become an easy routine. During the weekdays I answered his phone, fielded reader requests, and bought endless smoothies for
“So what do you do with all the stuff you buy?”
“What do you think I do with it? Cook. It’s how I unwind, though it’s gotten kind of serious. Last year I even went to Italy and took a two-week cooking class. It was great.”
Funny how I’d thought of him as someone who came to see Sal, never considering his existence outside the store, never wondering what he did with all the pasta, olive oil, and cheese he purchased. It made me feel even worse about what I’d written.
Once again he seemed to read my mind. “It’s so odd, the writer not mentioning you in the article. I hope you know you’re the first outsider Sal’s ever hired. It’s quite a compliment. And you’ve lasted! What has it been, four months? I think that guy missed a pretty interesting story.”
At this rate I was going to have to confess. I stood up quickly. “Gottago. I’ve taken a longer break than I’m supposed to, and the shop’s insane today. All those new customers.”
“Yeah,” he said, “that Bill what’s-his-name has a lot to answer for. Guess I’ll see you next week, Wilhelmina. With any luck the turmoil will have died down.”
Walking back, I thought what an odd conversation it had been. I still didn’t know his name, and neither of us had asked any of the usual questions: What do you do, where do you live, where did you go to school? Prying into people’s personal lives always felt awkward to me, but he seemed like one of those easygoing people who could ask anyone anything. I guess he just didn’t care to know.
WHEN I GOT BACK to Fontanari’s the line was longer, the tourists growing more irritable as evening came on. Sal’s mood was still volatile, and I watched him warily.
“Next!” I called. A thin blonde, extravagantly made up, stared suspiciously at me. She nudged her companion. “I don’t know who this girl is.” She pointed to Theresa. “But that one must be the sister. And that one”—the finger moved on to Rosalie—“is the wife. Let’s wait until one of the Fontanaris is free.”
I glanced uneasily at Sal, hoping he hadn’t heard, but he was putting his knife down and brushing off his hands. “Excuse me,” he apologized to the customer he’d been serving. Then he came and draped an arm around my shoulder. “This is a family establishment,” he said, making sure his voice carried. Heads turned. He gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “And back here we are all Fontanaris.” He winked at me and retreated to his corner of the counter. Rosalie crossed her arms over her chest and nodded, claiming me for her own.
The Mania of the Moment
A S ROSALIE HAD PREDICTED, THE TOURISTS MOVED ON TO THE next hot destination, and Fontanari’s glided back into its familiar orbit. Weekend after weekend, Gennaro selected special cheeses for his mama. That summer Jane went upstate, where she unearthed her grandmother’s recipe box, and she began showing up with long-forgotten dishes for Sal, Theresa, and Rosalie to taste. Mr. Complainer came too; now when I waited on him, I asked how he was planning to use the pecorino or the expensive imported San Marzano tomatoes he was purchasing.
“Any suggestions?” he’d ask, but I’d just shake my head and say, “You’re the cook.” I had no desire to broach the “I don’t cook” conversation with him.
“Why won’t you give him a chance?” Rosalie asked after witnessing one of these exchanges.
“He doesn’t want one.”
Rosalie’s lips quivered, holding back her words, but she said nothing. She was convinced that I was missing an opportunity. I had thought, after the day of the dumpling, that there might be something there, but he never sought me out again.
It was okay; I was very busy. By the time I’d been at
Delicious!
for a year, running Jake’s office had become an easy routine. During the weekdays I answered his phone, fielded reader requests, and bought endless smoothies for
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