Delicious! (10 page)

“No.” Jake’s voice lacked sympathy. “I don’t. It goes against all his principles. That’s why I asked you to write it: I thought you were the one person who might be able to talk him into it. Frankly, I didn’t expect the writing to be nearly this good, but I figured I could fix that. But I never, ever thought you’d just write the story without discussing it with him.”

The pleasure of Jake’s praise had evaporated, leaving nothing but shame and apprehension. I should have come up with a different story. “Can I let him see what I’ve written?”

Jake looked shocked. “Of course not! That would be completely unprofessional.”

“I didn’t know.… ”

“You have to ask him.” Jake pointed to the phone.

“Not like that,” I pleaded. “I need to do it in person.”

“That train left the station a while ago.” His voice was hard. “You’re just putting it off.” Then his face softened. “Maybe you’re right. Go now. Have you ever seen Sal angry?”

“No.”

“I have.” And now he allowed a little sympathy to creep into his voice. “Not pretty.”

I WALKED TO FONTANARI
’
S
, stretching out the time like a child who’s been sent to her room. The snow had turned to slush, and the cold gray New York fog matched my mood. By the time I got to the shop, my toes were frozen, my fingers red, and I smelled of damp wool.

“Willie!” The pleasure in Sal’s voice cut through me. “What’re you doing here on a Monday? How was Thanksgiving?” He enfolded me in a hug and led me to Rosalie, who was making mozzarella in the back kitchen.

“Sal, I need to tell you something.… ”

Beneath the milky fluorescent lights, I haltingly told my story. Rosalie kept kneading the balls of cheese, never looking up, but I watched Sal’s face grow darker. “Oof,” he said when I’d finished, dropping onto a stool. He looked as if he’d just been punched very hard in the stomach.

“There’s nothing in it you won’t like,” I pleaded.

“You know how I feel about publicity! I’ve never let anyone write about us. Never. We do honest work here, and we don’t do it so some pipsqueak will tell the world how wonderful we are.” His usually kind face was stern, distant. He sighed deeply and cupped his hands above his eyes as if the light had grown too bright. “I felt so close to you, almost like family. I thought you understood.”

Anger would’ve been easier to take. “Forget it,” I said, “forget the whole thing. I never should have sent it to Jake. But he won’t publish it unless you say it’s okay, so don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.”

“No.” Rosalie spoke at last, looking up from her work. “It does matter. What did Jake say about what you wrote?”

“That I made Fontanari’s sound like a way of life.” I was hoping this would make both of them understand all the love and admiration I’d put into the piece.

Sal wasn’t having it. “That’s what it is to me,” he said flatly.

But Rosalie had heard me. “Wilhelmina sees us. And this is a big chance for her. We shouldn’t steal it away.”

Sal reached for his wife’s hand. “If it were anybody else—”

“But it’s not. And you know she would never hurt you.” The look she shot me was fierce, as if daring me to prove her wrong.

“I wouldn’t. You know that.”

“Well, then,” said Rosalie.

Sal stood slowly, as if his back hurt. “Let me think about it.”

JAKE PUT THE PIECE
in the March issue, lightning speed by publishing standards. But in real-world terms, that gave Sal almost three months to agonize over the article and its possible effect on the shop.

The story went online on a Friday night. The reaction was instant. And intense. On Saturday morning there was a long line down the block before we even opened. “All new customers,” Sal groaned, peering out the window.

Mr. Complainer showed up at ten—a full day ahead of usual. “Hey, Sal,” he called from the back of the crowded shop, “you still have time for us ordinary people now that you’re famous?”

Sal threw me a what-did-I-tell-you look, and I went beet red, worried about what was coming next. But Sal gave it right back. “When’d you start reading food magazines?” he asked as Mr. Complainer approached the counter. Impressed by the drama, the new customers made way.

“I don’t read
Delicious!
,” Mr. Complainer admitted. “But my friends all know I come here, and three of them sent me a link. I’m praying none of them recognized me. ‘Mr. Complainer’? Please tell me you don’t really call me that.”

I didn’t even know his name; I was so used to calling him Mr. Complainer, I’d never thought how he’d feel when that showed up in print. It hadn’t crossed my mind that he might read the article, and now, thinking of all the other things I’d written, I began to feel slightly sick. I’d mentioned that he had a man crush on Sal and treated the cheese like a communion wafer, refusing to accept it from any other hands. Now I saw that I might have hurt him.

“It’s affectionate,” said Sal hurriedly. “You know that. Weeks you don’t come in, we miss you.”

“But how’d the writer even know that? And who the hell was he, anyway? I don’t remember anyone hanging around taking notes.”

I hoped Sal wasn’t going to out me; I didn’t want Mr. Complainer to know I was the traitor. I didn’t want anyone to know. To my relief, Sal said, “Some new kid at the magazine. They kept it pretty low-key. Even we didn’t notice what was happening until it was too late.”

“It’s a good story,” Mr. Complainer conceded, “except for that bit about me. He got almost everyone else right. I really liked what he said about you and Rosalie.” Then he looked at me, as if he’d just noticed I was there. “Poor Wilhelmina.” He was all sympathetic misunderstanding. “You didn’t get a single line. How could the guy have missed you?”

“Guess I’m not very noticeable.” I tugged at my apron and averted my eyes. He’d realized I was the least colorful character in the shop.

To my surprise he said, very quietly, “I think you undersell yourself.”

Now I was really embarrassed. He was being kind, trying to make me feel better about being left out of a story I’d written myself. The irony was absurd, and I tried to come up with something to say, something to move the conversation in a different direction. Think! And then I had it.

“You mean the way you undersell Rosalie’s mozzarella? I believe there was something in the article about Fontanari’s excellent American mozzarella. Perhaps you’d like to try some?”

“No, thank you.” He seemed as relieved as I was to be back on familiar ground. “I’d like a ball of
real
mozzarella di bufala. And just to show you my heart’s in the right place, I will deign, this once, to accept it from your hands instead of Sal’s.”

“You sure about that? You may have to do penance by saying a dozen Hail Marys.”

“I’ll take that chance,” he said.

ALL DAY, NEW CUSTOMERS
came surging through the door, and Sal’s mood went up and down like a boat riding the tide. At one point an uptown lady twitched her mink off a shoulder and trumpeted, “I don’t see what’s so great about this shop. I could have gone to Grace’s Marketplace and saved the price of the taxi.” To say Sal gave me one of his dark looks wouldn’t even come close.

“See what you’ve done!”

“Don’t worry.” Rosalie came quietly up behind me in the late afternoon. “He’s embarrassed, but this will pass.”

I turned so I could see her face. “Embarrassed? About what?”

“I’ll tell you.” She brushed an invisible stray hair back into her bun. “The truth is that he’s enjoying the attention. But Sal’s not a man who can lie to himself, and this troubles him. If you’d asked if you could write about us, he would have told you no. But you didn’t, and now he gets to have his cake and eat it too.” She watched him hand a slice of cheese to a little girl on the other side of the counter. “I think that, deep down, he’s afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That it’ll go to his head. That it’ll change him.” The look she directed at her husband held both love and faith. “But it won’t. You can’t change Sal. Nothing can. So you stop your worrying. This won’t last,
and in a week, maybe two, everything will go back the way it was before. You’ll see. You take a break now, walk around the block, get out of here for a little while.” She gave me a small push. “The air’ll do you good.”

I untied my apron, feeling a small ripple of disappointment eddy through the shop; the customers’ wait would be longer now. But as I walked toward Chinatown, breathing in the scent of soy sauce, dried shrimp, and garlic, I gave myself to the raucous street, with its river of jostling people, and I could feel my shoulders relax as I slipped into the flow. Lured by the promise of cheap grease, I stared into the window of a dumpling shop, startled by the sight of a tall, thin woman in colorless clothing with chin-length brown hair and a wide mouth. She could have been anyone, but when she put her hand up to adjust her glasses, I realized she was me. I dropped my hand quickly, went into the small, steamy shop, and traded a dollar for five hot, juicy dumplings. My phone buzzed as I took the first bite. I looked down at the screen: Aunt Melba.

“Billie!” Her voice was high, a bit breathless, obviously elated. “We just read your story! We’re so proud; your dad’s bought up every copy of
Delicious!
in Santa Barbara. You’ve made Sal Fontanari sound like a cross between Santa Claus and the Dalai Lama; I can’t wait to come to New York and meet him.”

“Don’t buy your tickets yet,” I interjected quickly. “Right now the store’s full of tourists, and he’s pretty pissed.”

“He can’t be!” It was Dad on an extension. “You made the man sound like a saint.” So they were together, in her house.

“You don’t know Sal. He hates publicity, hates having strangers invade his little universe. He glares at me every time a new one comes through the door.”

“Nothing lasts.” Dad was using his lawyer voice. “He’ll get over it. It’s—”

“—only the first day,” Aunt Melba chimed in, reminding me of how she always finished his sentences.

How odd, I thought: They were using the same words as Rosalie, but their meanings were so different. Rosalie lived in a rock-solid world,
and she believed that everything settled back into familiar patterns. All it took was time. But we came from a land of earthquakes, and my family knew how everything could shift in a single instant.

I left the shop, carrying my dumplings in a paper tray to the grassy area along Allen Street. Huddled on the bench, I could feel the cold green slats pressing into my thighs; it suited my mood. Reluctant to go back to Fontanari’s, I ate the dumplings slowly, losing myself in the raw garlicky sting of the plump crescents.

“Hey, lady, can you spare a dumpling?” Mr. Complainer was standing in front of my bench. He looked wonderful, his brown hair tousled by the wind, his cheeks pink from the cold. I held up the tray with its lone remaining dumpling and he picked it up, practically inhaling it.

“I love these,” he admitted, sitting down next to me. “A secret addiction we obviously share. Don’t tell Sal; he wouldn’t approve.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank God. Sal’d start giving me the second-best Parm, and I’m not sure I could deal with that.”

I laughed, wondering what he was doing here. He answered as if I’d spoken the thought. “I usually shop in Chinatown after Fontanari’s. That place over there”—he pointed across the street—“makes the best roast pork.”

“So what do you do with all the stuff you buy?”

“What do you think I do with it? Cook. It’s how I unwind, though it’s gotten kind of serious. Last year I even went to Italy and took a two-week cooking class. It was great.”

Funny how I’d thought of him as someone who came to see Sal, never considering his existence outside the store, never wondering what he did with all the pasta, olive oil, and cheese he purchased. It made me feel even worse about what I’d written.

Once again he seemed to read my mind. “It’s so odd, the writer not mentioning you in the article. I hope you know you’re the first outsider Sal’s ever hired. It’s quite a compliment. And you’ve lasted! What has it been, four months? I think that guy missed a pretty interesting story.”

At this rate I was going to have to confess. I stood up quickly. “Gotta
go. I’ve taken a longer break than I’m supposed to, and the shop’s insane today. All those new customers.”

“Yeah,” he said, “that Bill what’s-his-name has a lot to answer for. Guess I’ll see you next week, Wilhelmina. With any luck the turmoil will have died down.”

Walking back, I thought what an odd conversation it had been. I still didn’t know his name, and neither of us had asked any of the usual questions: What do you do, where do you live, where did you go to school? Prying into people’s personal lives always felt awkward to me, but he seemed like one of those easygoing people who could ask anyone anything. I guess he just didn’t care to know.

WHEN I GOT BACK
to Fontanari’s the line was longer, the tourists growing more irritable as evening came on. Sal’s mood was still volatile, and I watched him warily.

“Next!” I called. A thin blonde, extravagantly made up, stared suspiciously at me. She nudged her companion. “I don’t know who this girl is.” She pointed to Theresa. “But that one must be the sister. And that one”—the finger moved on to Rosalie—“is the wife. Let’s wait until one of the Fontanaris is free.”

I glanced uneasily at Sal, hoping he hadn’t heard, but he was putting his knife down and brushing off his hands. “Excuse me,” he apologized to the customer he’d been serving. Then he came and draped an arm around my shoulder. “This is a family establishment,” he said, making sure his voice carried. Heads turned. He gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “And back here we are all Fontanaris.” He winked at me and retreated to his corner of the counter. Rosalie crossed her arms over her chest and nodded, claiming me for her own.

A
S ROSALIE HAD PREDICTED, THE TOURISTS MOVED ON TO THE
next hot destination, and Fontanari’s glided back into its familiar orbit. Weekend after weekend, Gennaro selected special cheeses for his mama. That summer Jane went upstate, where she unearthed her grandmother’s recipe box, and she began showing up with long-forgotten dishes for Sal, Theresa, and Rosalie to taste. Mr. Complainer came too; now when I waited on him, I asked how he was planning to use the pecorino or the expensive imported San Marzano tomatoes he was purchasing.