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ChapterOne
Massi
This year will be the best year of my life. Everything I’ve ever wished for is at my fingertips, I just have to reach up and reap the benefits.
If I don’t fuck up.
I’ve been there, done that. I’m not letting anything or anyone stop me from my dream this time.
I lick the bechamel off my finger and my taste buds tingle with pleasure.
“It’s almost there, but adding saffron would get it to the next level.” This is as much praise as I’m willing to bestow. I don’t want this young, talented chef to stop working on his craft. I recognize potential when I see it. Or taste it.
“Yeah, I tried it before and it was too much.” Richie continues whisking the sauce, but lowers the heat. He’s at least ten years younger than me and I sometimes see myself in him. Well, to an extent, since we’re complete opposites when it comes to temper. This young man with the quiet determination has great things ahead of him.
“The alchemy of cooking is not an exact science. You need to experiment. If it doesn’t work the first time, try the second, the tenth, the hundredth, but don’t give up.” I pat his shoulder.
His wife, Manuela, comes in with a shot of espresso for me. “You look very smart today, Massi.”
I was fine, but as soon as she mentions my clothes, the suit’s constraining properties multiply. Fuck, it’s like wearing barbed wire. I tug at the tie. “I have a thing later. How is the business?”
“We get enough reservations on weekends when many come to the market, but during the week it’s hit or miss. Sometimes we are full and sometimes it’s just at half capacity.” She wipes the counter as she speaks.
Their small bistro is a family business. A couple’s business, with the two of them covering all the parts of the operation.
“Come up with specials for Thursday evenings to begin with. Something that doesn’t break the bank but attracts people.” I shake Richie’s hand and kiss Manuela’s cheek. “Keep playing with saffron. I’ll come and taste your bechamel next month.”
Richie wraps his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Once upon a time, I thought I’d run a family business. But then I became a lone wolf, which works just fine.
“Thank you, Massimo. For everything.”
Some believe I’m supporting my competition, but there is plenty of room for excellent cuisine and dining experience in a metropolitan city like New York.
I walk the several long blocks to my business. My restaurant. Technically, only sixty percent mine, but it’s my culinary mastery that brings people in. This popular place—and may I humbly say, one of the most popular—in Manhattan has been built on my sweat.
Casa Cassi has been named an epicurean gem in the middle of SoHo and I won’t argue with that. This year I’ll polish its reputation with a star. One that I lost early in my career, but not this time. This time, I’m focused and determined. This time my business partner, Phillip, will oversee the entire process, so my—some say horrible—temper won’t interfere.
I waltz inside and two of my staff scatter away from the long, polished bar that lines the wall to the right of the entrance. Beside the mahogany and steel counter is the double door to my kingdom. I wave my greetings at the two employees, who suddenly get busy, and smile to myself.
I should know their names, but I don’t. Not yet. I’m not sure if they share my vision, so I don’t bother. Maybe I am an asshole like people say, but you have to earn my respect and many of these young servers just come to make money on the way somewhere else—college, other jobs—so why bother getting to know them?
And it’s Phillip’s domain to schmooze with the employees. That leaves me space to focus on the menu and the superb quality we offer here.
I make myself another espresso while the two servers wipe down the tables spread around eight hundred square feet of wood-like stone floor with the walls of exposed bricks and copper fixtures.
I love this place. Even in the dim lights of its last yawns before it awakens with crowds, orders, popped corks, clinking ice and clattering cutlery. This place has been my home for fifteen years.
I push through the double doors that lead to the kitchen. Today is Monday, my day off, but I can’t stay away.
The room teems with activity, prepping is full speed ahead. The rich smell of a homemade meal whiffs my way, surprising me. Who dared to update the menu?
My sous-chef, Lena, Phillip’s fiancée, greets me with a shy smile. She is slicing carrots on the stainless-steel counter in the middle of the kitchen. I wasn’t particularly thrilled Phillip wanted her to work here, but it only took three days to see how capable she was.
“Morning,” I grunt, because I don’t like people in general.
The shift in mood upon my entry is palpable. Two cooks, who were chatting happily, are now focused on their tasks. They don’t meet my eyes as they greet me back.
The only person holding my gaze is Lena. Phillip has said little about her, but it’s been clear she has dealt with an asshole, or assholes, in the past and I don’t scare her. That’s the reason I like her. Within days she figured out my temper is motivated by my drive to create magic. Focus. Eyes on the result.
