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In the kitchen she opened the fridge. The pale light lit up her face in an ethereal, almost angelic way. Making her nearly look like a kid again.
The food inside was mostly crap. The kind of low rent stuff her dad ate when he was home - sweat shop eggs, processed cheese, cheap beer. But on the bottom shelf, shoved in on the right, was that whole bag of groceries she bought at Nonna’s the other day. She pulled it out and looked inside.
She wasn’t hungry, but she started cooking anyway. Where her dad only saw cooking as a means to an end, she saw it as the whole enchilada. The be all and end all. The reason, not the answer.
She emptied the bag on the counter. A firm head of garlic, a fresh bunch of organic spinach, a package of thick sliced pancetta, a dozen cage free, pasture raised, farm fresh eggs, a hunk of deliciously fragrant Parmiggiano-Reggiano, a small bottle of first pressed, extra virgin, Italian olive oil from a small family farm on the coast of Sicily and a loaf of, at the time, fresh baked semolina bread which had now gotten just a little stale and dry from being in the fridge. Making it perfect for what she had in mind.
In no time at all she was whipping around the kitchen. Slicing the garlic and washing the spinach. Getting everything prepped and ready. Ant wasn’t a professional cook by any measure of the word. But she had spent enough time in the kitchen at Cap’s and here at home to know her way around a stove.
Cap was the first to come downstairs. In one of his moods, no less. It was obvious from the moment he entered the kitchen he was going to be hard to deal with. He walked in, cleared his throat, looked around, shook his head with a condescending attitude and went for the coffee machine.
But Ant was having none of it. She slapped his hand away and pushed him toward the table.
“Sit,” she said. Her small hands pushing against his two hundred and twenty pound frame.
He grudgingly obliged and settled into one of the kitchen chairs.
She made him a cup of Folger’s finest. Disappointed in herself for not also picking up some better coffee. Then she proceeded to make him breakfast.
First, in the only decent pan they had - a well seasoned, twelve inch, cast iron beauty that was literally borrowed from a neighbor three years ago and never returned - she crisped thick slices of that semolina bread in the olive oil, along with a touch of salt and pepper.
Then she sautéed the spinach and the garlic, seasoning everything as she went along. Setting them aside once the spinach was warm and wilted, and the garlic was golden and fragrant. In the same pan she placed the pancetta slices. They rendered and crisped as they cooked, leaving a whole lot of liquid gold in the bottom of that pan. Next she fried two eggs in the pancetta drippings, till the whites were firm and crispy around the edges, and the yolks were golden, but barely set.
Then she built it. On the perfectly browned toast went a couple rounds of crisp pancetta. On top of that went a tangle of garlicky spinach and on top of that the two fried eggs. Finally a touch more salt and cracked black pepper, a generous shower of freshly grated Parmiggiano-Reggiano, and just for good measure, one last healthy drizzle of olive oil.
The fragrance in the kitchen was beyond amazing. The combined aromas… The garlic, the pancetta… It was homey and upscale at the same time. Cap wouldn’t admit it. He still hadn’t said a word. But, the smells were making him mighty hungry and they were too good to resist.
Ant put the plate down in the middle of the table. Cap reached for it, but she pulled it away. Just enough to get his full attention.
“I’m quitting law school,” she said.
He looked at her, raising one eyebrow and pursing his lips.
She went on. “I want to create something. Something with food.”
He tugged on the plate, but she wasn’t ready to let it go.
“Good food. A real restaurant. A small place of my own.”
Cap looked intently at his daughter. He could see he wasn’t going to win this one. He could see the grit and determination in her eyes. Frankly, he was well aware of the balls it took, by anyone, to stand up to him. He was impressed.
Truth was, she was more like him than he wanted to admit. Silently he acquiesced, shrugging his shoulders and nodding his head just enough to get the point across.
She let go of the plate and he pulled it closer, immediately digging in. He cut into the egg. It’s yellow yolk burst forth and cascaded down the sides of the open faced sandwich. Coating the pancetta and spinach and garlic and toast in that warm, rich, unctuous, golden sauce of the gods. He took a bite and closed his eyes.
Of the twenty thousand or so breakfasts he had in his lifetime, Cap knew, unequivocally, that this was the best one. And she made it. His little girl. The swell of pride he felt was almost overwhelming. Of course, all he said was, “Not bad.”
To which, she rolled her eyes.
Then he straightened up in his chair and added, “I don’t want you seeing that boy anymore. ”
Ant stopped what she was doing, hung her head just a little lower and said, “I don’t want to see that boy anymore.”
31
Romeo watched as his call went to voicemail, again.
He’d lost count as to how many times that was. He knew he’d be moving into psycho stalker territory if he kept calling her. But the fact that she wasn’t talking to him was driving him nuts.
