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Milo and Alessandro, two Greek-American men with near identical dark hair and eyes, sidle up to me as I wash my hands and pull on my white coat. Though they resemble one another, they couldn’t be more different in personality—one kind and gentle-hearted, solely devoted to his lovely wife, and the other . . . well, Milo. There’s a Milo in every kitchen the world over, I’ve found.
“Chef, have you heard who’s coming tonight?” Milo asks, his lips twisted into a hungry smile.
I shrug, not getting drawn into his lecherousness. “Kennedy? Some sort of wedding pre-game.” Pre-game, an American tradition I learned about in the South, though they call it ‘tailgating’, a fascinating event where they grill meat in parking lots, drink an excessive amount of cheap beer, and boast loudly about their team’s abilities. I’d been confused when Roberta had described tonight’s dinner as such an event, but apparently, it’s a broader term that just means a pre-party.
Milo snorts. “Who cares about that cunt? I mean the bride!” He cuts an eye over his shoulder, making sure Roberta is focused on her soup, and then pulls his phone out of his pocket. He clicks for a moment and then spins the phone around to show me a couple, both blonde and young and near sparkling with the glow of love. “I’d watch her do yoga all day. Self-care, indeed.” He makes an obscene jerking gesture with his hand and I grin. Milo is vulgar, but he is amusing.
Before I can do much more than chuckle, Sergio comes barreling into the kitchen, the proverbial bull in a china shop. For all his eating preferences, he is a rather large man, and the space between the stove and the food line is already narrowed by the line cooks prepping for tonight.
“Lorenzo! There you are, my boy! Are you ready for tonight?” he booms, smiling widely. “Tonight, Avanti will be on everyone’s lips and by morning, we’ll have people begging for reservations to dine at my restaurant.” He looks to the ceiling, lips moving in silent prayer.
He means reservations with me. And Roberta. Hell, even with Milo and Alessandro. All Sergio does is greet people like the consummate owner, shaking hands and kissing babies like a greasy politician. He’s barely one step above a used car salesman.
I sigh, knowing that’s harsher than Sergio deserves. He is good at his role, and it’s one I’m not interested in playing myself. I’m just in a mood.
At least cooking, even recipes I know by rote, is a stress relief, so I get to it.
Garlic . . . minced. Pasta . . . made from scratch. Parmesan . . . hand grated.
“Like this?” I ask, my small fingers kneading the pasta dough carefully, slowly, dutifully as Aunt Sofia supervises my awkward new movements. She intends it to be punishment, a penance for misusing her best wooden spoon as a makeshift sword to fight with my friend, Emilio. He’s likely at home washing dishes as his own consequence.
But this . . . this isn’t a punishment. This is magic. Blending ingredients together, working them until the result is somehow greater than the sum of its parts.
“Yes, Lorenzo. Good boy,” Aunt Sofia encourages me. “Harder. You must use your hands to squeeze. Then we will roll it out.” She’s tossing a light layer of flour onto a wooden board, prepping for that step as I’ve seen her do hundreds of times. I never knew it was so much work just to make dinner.
That night, when she tells the family that I made the pasta, they praise my efforts and the pasta itself. I bask in their words, though I can tell the noodles are clunkier than the delicate strands Aunt Sofia usually creates.
That night was when my love affair with cooking began. For the next several years, I worked side by side with Aunt Sofia, her tutelage difficult but enlightening. By my late teens, I was creating menus beyond even what she was capable of and seeking out more. Always more flavors, experiences, textures, and blends.
Yet, it always comes back to this . . . my fettuccine alfredo, the signature dish that has been my pass into kitchens the world over. For such a seemingly simple dish, there is a refined balance to the flavors.
Alessandro steps up beside me. “Thirty minutes until apps, Chef. Guests are already in house.”
I look up to the clock on the wall. “Heard. I’m going to step out for a smoke before service starts.”
He nods, moving into my place and keeping the process of cheese grating going. We’ll go through several wedges of parmesan tonight and do not want to run out mid-service.
I step into the back alley, taking a deep breath of the evening air. I haven’t smoked in years, but ‘smoke breaks’ are a known habit of kitchen crews, and though I don’t need the nicotine, I need the moment to center myself because once service starts, so does the madness. There will be no breaks, no pauses, no room for mistakes, and the pressure will be on.
