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2
I sat in the office at the end of the day, making the guys’ schedules for the next two weeks, because who was I kidding? There was very little chance that Lucas would take care of it, and that was assuming he even showed up next week. Besides, I still needed to make time for Mr. Di Rossi to get here and hand out the salary checks.
The owner liked assigning the shifts from Wednesday to Tuesday, something about the way his father did it. I turned on the computer and began to fill out the work calendar, taking into consideration Nick’s extracurricular summer classes, and Josh’s requested days off to be with his girlfriend and visiting family.
Josh had moved here from Texas to go to Stanford University, and got a job to cover his living expenses even though his family was loaded. Texans didn’t play around, and from the way he described his parents, it was clear they didn’t condone the living-off-our-fortune lifestyle. Luckily, he was as down to earth as it got.
Since he wasn’t taking any summer classes, I could fully use him in the coffee shop, as well as Sam, Jim, and Peter—the afternoon crew, who also worked the happy hour and beer tastings.
“You are still here?” Mr. Di Rossi’s voice halted my thoughts, and my gaze lifted to see him entering the office.
“Yeah, sorry. I was just getting the schedules ready for the next two weeks.”
“You mean the ones Lucas is supposed to be taking care of?” he asked sarcastically, and my gut tightened.
“Oh, I offered to do them for him. No biggie.”
Giving me a knowing look, he walked towards me, pulling up the chair before me and I half stood in response.
“No, Sir. You can use the desk—”
He waved me off, disregarding my words and sat down, leaning back on the leather chair. I awkwardly retook my seat while he silently regarded me for a moment, assessing me as he crossed one leg over his knee. “Where is my nephew, anyway? He is the one who should be closing the shop today, not you.”
Shit. I hated—HATED—lying. “Well, you see. He, um—”
“Let me guess, he felt bad and had to go home to rest?” Mr. Di Rossi chuckled humorlessly, not waiting for a response, then let out a heavy sigh. His penetrating brown eyes fell on me, and he began to assess me yet again. “You look good at that desk; it suits you.”
At that I laughed. Yes, I was the junior manager, but I wasn’t even getting paid for the position—I still had the same salary. I wasn’t a tool of course; I knew he wasn’t taking advantage of me. The last two months as junior manager without pay was a test. He wanted to know if I had what it took, how far my commitment to this place went, and how much of myself I was willing to invest in what I wanted to achieve.
Bring it on. I was riding this train as long as it took. I wasn’t afraid of paying my dues, and I knew someday it would reap rewards.
As though guessing the path my thoughts had taken, he leaned forwards, holding his hands between his knees. “You know, the original Mr. Di Rossi, my grandfather—may he rest in peace—was a farmer. A cheese maker. He and my grandmother arrived in New York in 1895, and began to make a living selling fresh cheese on the corner of a busy street.”
“Really?” Instantly enthralled by the story, I turned away from the monitor, giving him my full attention.
Nodding, he took a deep breath filled with nostalgia and pride. “After my father, Giovanni, was born, they decided to leave New York and ventured all the way here to California. It was here in San Francisco that my father met a beautiful American woman who stole his heart, and the year I was born they opened their first restaurant.”
“Trattoria Di Rossi,” I added, already knowing that part of the story.
That business, started by his father, turned into a chain of five-star restaurants all over the state. The Di Rossi name was known by anyone who could breathe in California. It demanded respect and spoke of class and status, but it also spoke of the kind of hard work and perseverance that drove this country. The American dream.
“I learned the value of money by working in my father’s restaurant when I was ten. I cleaned tables, restrooms, dishes, you name it. And let me tell you, my grandfather was a hard ass who raised my dad to be the same way. There was no leeway because I was a kid, or his son. At the end of each day, my dad checked my work, and he better found everything spotless or I had to do it all over again.”
He laughed, shaking his head, and I was helpless but to join him. “Those sound like good memories.”
“They are,” Mr. Di Rossi agreed with a nod. “I slowly worked my way up the chain. Waiter, cook, until I became the manager, and eventually, I opened another Trattoria location, followed by another, and another. Then, two years ago, I had the crazy idea of opening this shack.”
“Damn, I have no clue where this idea came from, but people love it.”
Laughter escaped him again. “I’m my father’s son.” He shrugged. “I have that drive in me to create and expand, so do my kids.”
“Your grandson, Nick, is a great employee,” I agreed. “He learns quickly and is willing to do anything we ask of him without complaining.”
“I’m glad to hear that. He inherited that hunger and determination from my daughter. It’s in our DNA,” Mr. Di Rossi added proudly. “My brother and his son however…” He shook his head, referring to Lucas. “They are spoiled. They grew up to reap the rewards of our hard work, and are quick to disregard it.”
Silence descended in the office. What could I possibly say to that?
Disappointment filtered through his expression and he reached for the inside pocket of his suit, pulling out his leather checkbook. Turning the monitor around, he opened the wages tracking portal and began to write the checks for his employees. He was an old-school kind of guy, who preferred making the payments himself.
