Page 54 of Lorenzo

And there, in the breast pocket, the unmistakable plastic shield of a pocket protector, a small arsenal of ballpoints clipped neatly inside.

Mike and I turn our attention to the open kitchen before us. The Rod, a slender, slight, intense man, moves with grace as he shoves a pizza into the oven with a long pole.

Then turns to three freshly baked pizzas. Hunching over them, he carefully sprinkles ingredients on them like he’s a famous Renaissance painter.

“The Rod thinks he’s Michelangelo,” I joke.

“Right. But remember he built his reputation on pizza. It’s no laughing matter,” Mike says, in all seriousness.

I turn to him, surprised. “So the buzz isn’t all PR hype?”

From the way Mike’s eyebrows shoot up, I owe him an explanation.

“Apologies for any offense. But you have to understand I’m a skeptical person by nature.”

“No apologies needed and no offense taken. But I really believe The Rod’s a genius. Wait until you taste his menu.”

With each pizza course, Mike takes out his notebook and jots down a few words. Then he pokes and prods at his slice before reaching for his camera.

When I catch Mike lifting the bottom of the pizza with his fork, I do a double take.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking out his cornicione.”

“What’s that?”

I fight the urge to laugh. Mike’s reverent tone makes what’s probably an innocent observation sound scandalous.

“The Italian word for ‘crust.’ It’s the most important element in The Rod’s process.”

I look at Mike with new respect. His pizza vocabulary and knowledge about the chef are impressive.

“Clearly, you’re more than a fanboy.”

“I spent twenty years running the Real Deal Pizza chain before it blew up. Got a generous compensation package, but gotta keep up on trends.”

“I see. So you’re looking to find a new position with an upscale brand?”

“Not that. I’m in the process of trying to put together some investors and train a pizza chef myself, using The Rod’s techniques.”

Ah. So that’s what the pictures are for, I think to myself.

Over the next two delicious pizzas, Mike tells me about his plans.

“Your investors won’t care about having a ‘big name’ chef to run the restaurant?”

“They only care about the bottom line. It’s the concept, not the chef. And I’m a big operations guy. I need to be the one spinning all the plates, not some temperamental chef. What’s your story, James Beard?” he says, using my fake name.

“You write for one of those fancy food magazines? Plan to expose The Rod to the foodie world so that we’ll never be able to get a table here again?”

“Not quite,” I say, thinking about the possibilities for Gina’s restaurant in a new way.

Mike’s right. An egotistical chef like The Rod would never sell himself to work ‘for’ a restaurant. He’ll need to be his own man. His own boss.

Just then, Mike’s phone rings. “I got to take this,” he tells me. “But let’s exchange contact info. I never know when I’ll need a journalist spy.”

Grinning, we touch our devices together until they light up.