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He braided three loaves of bread before I had my sentence out.
“Every day. I am a bit of—What is your expression . . .? Control freak.”
“I’m kind of the same way.” He gave me a wink. “You think?”
I laughed. “I know.”
“Well, then we both make progress in my kitchen this morning.”
I watched him, a master in his element, as the room filled with mouthwatering scents of baking bread and sweet pastry. I followed his every order to the letter as he placed my hands in flour and shook them off when the dough began to stick to them. I forgot myself and became immersed as we “made a mess.” Two espressos later, we began to fill the glass cases.
“You have helped so much,” Donato complimented as he inspected the fruits of our labor.
“It was my pleasure,” I said around a mouthful of rustic bread and basil/honey-flavored butter. “This is truly delicious.” I set the bread down as he moved to get up from the table and pulled his keys from his pocket.
“Donato, I am looking for someone.”
“Oh?”
“A friend. Daniello Di Giovanni. Do you know him?”
“Of course. He lives not far from here.”
My heart spiked as Donato searched through his keys.
“Can I possibly get his address from you?”
“Yes, but he is not home. He is away much. He comes to the bakery for Bruttiboni when he is home. He was fat from them as a child.”
I laughed despite my hopes being dashed. Of course, it wasn’t going to be that easy.
Donato spoke up, sensing my obvious disappointment. “I’m sure he will return soon. His sister ordered a cake for his niece’s birthday party this weekend.”
“Thank you.”
Donato wrote down the address and handed it to me. “How do you know Daniello?”
“He came to the States. Told me of your Bruttiboni. I had to try it for myself.”
Donato twisted the key in the door and opened his bakery for business.
“This is a long way to travel for Bruttiboni.”
“I wanted to see Barga.” Before I die.
“Well, you have much to see. I’ll make you a basket. You go enjoy the day.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It is no trouble, Taylor.”
Just as he unlocked the door, an older man came in and shuffled his feet to take the table closest to the counter. “Come va, Barta?”
“Va bene.” The older man said as he looked over to me. “Chi è questo?” I knew enough to know he wanted to know my name.
“Taylor.” I extended my hand his way as he waved me off.
Donato snapped, which was unexpected. “Do not be rude, you old goat. She has traveled far to see our Barga.”
