Georgia's Kitchen (17 page)

“I didn’t catch your name,” Georgia said in a last-ditch attempt to be friendly. If this guy ended up working for her, she couldn’t afford to be on bad terms with him. Hostility was one ingredient to keep out of the kitchen at all costs.

“Bruno,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

After several wrong turns, Georgia finally discovered the kitchen. From the outside, the villa didn’t look especially large. A passerby would never guess that its ocher-colored walls housed eight bedrooms, one less bathroom, and an assortment of public rooms that stretched across the endless first floor. By the time Georgia found the kitchen, she had also uncovered a marble-floored entry hall, a dining room with seating for twenty, and a book-lined library. Either Claudia had been born to nobility or the restaurants were doing even better than Georgia thought.

“Hello?” Georgia called, stepping into a room as big as her apartment. The kitchen was almost entirely stainless steel: an eight-burner range, twin refrigerators, a rotisserie oven, two dishwashers, two double wall ovens, miles of countertop—everything gleamed in cool silver-gray with the exception of the Carrara-topped pastry area, a rustic wooden table and matching chairs, and the herringboned brick floors. Georgia had never seen anything like it.

A slender figure stood over the range, her feet forming a
V,
a ballerina’s first position. From the back, she could have been a high school cheerleader: her brown hair was pulled into a high ponytail, her hips nonexistent under black pedal pushers.

“Claudia?” Georgia tried again.

Claudia turned from the stove and wiped her hands on a dish towel tucked into her waistband, a smile spreading across her face. “Georgia! Ciao, bellissima!” Her hazel eyes sparkled and her bangs were cut into a pixie fringe. Were it not for the laugh lines etched like quotation marks on either side of her mouth, she could have passed for a decade younger than her forty-two years. She grabbed Georgia by the shoulders and kissed her cheeks. “You’re here!
Brava!
”

With her tremendous talent and gamine looks, Claudia had been at the forefront of the revival of the Florentine dining scene, a spot she hadn’t yet relinquished. Judging from the smells emanating from the oven, she wouldn’t be doing so anytime soon.

“I’m so glad to see you,” Georgia said. “I’m so happy to be here.” Any fears she’d had about Claudia morphing into a bitter old maid disappeared. If she was going through a rough time, Georgia certainly couldn’t tell by looking at her. She was as gorgeous and effervescent as ever.

Claudia took a step back and gave her apprentice the once-over. “So, you got a bad review. It’s not the end of the world. You Americans care too much about reviews. I read it myself online. It was almost
too
bad.” She smiled again. “But you’re here now, so no matter.”

“Yes. Here I am.”

“And the boy? The fiancé?” Claudia picked up Georgia’s bare left hand. “No ring?”

“No ring, no fiancé.” Despite the touchy subject, Georgia beamed. Between the spellbinding scenery, the smells wafting
through the kitchen, and Claudia’s infectious enthusiasm, Georgia’s perma-grin was starting to return. “What are you cooking? It smells amazing.”

“Cinghiale with red wine and olives.” Claudia studied Georgia’s face. “No ring, no fiancé, and the biggest smile I’ve seen all day.” She nodded her approval. “We’ll eat later. Now, let me show you the room.”

Georgia followed Claudia across the kitchen and up the back staircase to a pretty room with whitewashed beams, a dresser, a bed, and a writing table. The small bathroom had a shower stall and a window that overlooked the vineyard next door.

“It’s perfect,” Georgia said.

She heard sniffing outside the door, and a wiry, gray-haired dog butted its head into the room. A dog. Claudia had a dog!

“My son, Chien,” Claudia said, scratching him between his ears. “He’s very friendly. You’re not afraid of dogs, are you?”

“Oh, no. I love dogs.” Georgia stooped down to Chien’s level. She’d been missing Sally since the minute she climbed aboard the plane. “Come here, Chien. I guess he doesn’t speak English?”

“Not yet. But he’s got the rest of the spring and the whole summer to learn.” Claudia walked out the door, Chien at her heels. “I’ll leave you to settle in. Come down when you’re ready and we’ll eat.”

Georgia sprawled across the bed, placing her head on the lone lumpy pillow. The whole summer in San Casciano—she liked the way that sounded. And though she had no idea what would happen when she returned to New York, for once not having a plan didn’t bother her. All that mattered was that she was in glorious, glorious San Casciano, and her new home came with a dog.

A bowl of frothy cappuccino steamed on the table. For the third time Georgia tried to slug a sip to placate her caffeine-starved
brain; for the third time she couldn’t lift the bowl without scorching her finger pads. Despite polishing off two helpings of cinghiale, a mound of polenta, and plenty of spinaci saltati at last night’s dinner, she was starving. After her feast, she’d tossed and turned in her lumpy bed, envisioning Sally snuggled up next to Glenn in his cousin’s bachelor pad, the two of them happily snoring. The made-up scene made her bluesy, and she tossed and turned some more before vowing not to think about Glenn in exchange for a few hours of sleep. Somehow, the trade-off had worked and she drifted into fitful slumber.

She eyed the five other people in the kitchen with her, feeling like a contestant on a culinary reality show. Of the five, the only face she recognized was Bruno’s. He sat at the head of the table, his arms crossed, a snub-nosed girl with a Clara Bow mouth on his right. Seated on his left, Georgia had the misfortune of being eye level with an oozing pimple buried in his scraggly sideburn. At the stove, a girl in a plain white oxford and Bermuda shorts cooked the eggs Claudia had promised the group before sweeping out of the kitchen, her black tunic rippling behind her. The girl hummed something that sounded like the Cars’ “Just What I Needed,” occasionally blotting her shiny forehead with a dish towel.

The decaffeinated group sat in silence. Several champagne flutes sparkled in the center of the table, next to a basket filled with silverware and linen napkins. Georgia took one of each, arranging them around her coffee bowl. This kickoff breakfast, as Claudia called it, was a mandatory meeting for the core kitchen staff, who were not only colleagues but housemates. Through the high season most of them would bunk at the villa, which was large enough to accommodate them all in varying levels of comfort. Earlier that morning, Claudia had knocked on their doors, telling them to report downstairs by seven. It felt a little
like restaurant boot camp but was no worse than being reprimanded about working out at a Marco staff meeting.

After several minutes, the girl turned off the burners and set down a plate of fluffy eggs, finishing them off with a healthy shaving of black truffles. Next, she placed a platter of buttered toast and another of meats and cheeses on the table, her brown braid swinging across her back. She smiled at Georgia, revealing two dime-size dimples. Taking this as an invitation to dig in, Georgia smiled back, then scooped up some eggs and speared a few slices of bresaola and prosciutto. A couple bites and one scalding sip of cappuccino later, she felt enough herself to chat up the guy next to her.

“Hi, I’m Georgia. What’s your name?”

“Tonio. You’re the American.” His rusty hair stood in spikes and splotchy orange freckles covered his arms.

“Is it that obvious?” Georgia said, then drank her coffee, which had finally cooled. “Then I guess that makes you the Italian?”

“We are all Italian,” he said, stone-faced. “Except you.”

“Right.” Georgia looked at his eyes. His translucent lashes could use a tint job.

The girl with the braid took the empty seat across from Georgia. “Hi, my name is Vanessa. You must be Georgia?”

“Yes. The lone non-Italian, as Tonio just pointed out.”

“Don’t mind him. He’s just grumpy.” She bent across the table and lowered her voice. “Almost as bad as the boss.”

“Claudia? She doesn’t seem—”

“
Buon giorno,
everybody!” Claudia strode into the room, an ear-to-ear grin lighting her face. “Welcome to Collina Verde and, more importantly, to the future home of Trattoria Dia.”

There was a smattering of applause, and even Bruno smiled.

“I have handpicked this team of chefs from my own restaurants in Florence, as well as the top tables in Rome, Bologna,
Milan, and”—Claudia turned to Georgia—“even New York City. I expect us all to work together, as a team, to create what will soon be known as the best trattoria in all of Tuscany.” She popped open a bottle of Pol Roger and began filling everyone’s glass. When she reached Tonio, she popped a second bottle. “I know it’s early for champagne, but this morning we are celebrating.”

As the group sipped from their flutes, Georgia wondered how anyone could say Claudia was grumpy. Like any successful restaurateur, she obviously demanded hard work and dedication, but grumpy? No way. With her easy smile and twinkling eyes, she was like a younger, hipper version of Mrs. Claus.

“And now,” Claudia said, “I’d like to introduce the talented team that will build Trattoria Dia.”

Georgia bowed her head slightly, trying to calm the flutters in her belly. There was no telling how the staff felt about having an American boss, but she’d soon find out.

“Our head chef,” Claudia said, “needs no introduction. My former sous-chef at La Farfalla, Bruno Valchese has proven himself to be hardworking, talented…”

Blood pounded through Georgia’s veins. Her face, then her neck and chest, grew hot and prickly, as if she’d buffed her skin with a Brillo pad soaked in rubbing alcohol.
Bruno
was head chef?
Bruno?
Hadn’t Claudia said there was a spot for Georgia on the team? She closed her eyes and tried to string together the e-mail Claudia had sent. She must have read it a dozen times, and there’d never been a doubt in her mind that Claudia wanted her as head chef. Of course she wanted Georgia to be head chef—what else could she possibly be?

“… all the way from New York City, our sous-chef, Georgia Gray, a former apprentice of mine and an incredibly skilled chef.”

There was her answer. Sous-chef. Georgia somehow managed not to cry and not to throw up. She raised her glass and
offered a slight nod, her lips squeezed together to suppress the scream shooting up her larynx. Replacing her glass on the table, she clenched her hands together until her fingertips turned red with blood, the words
sous, chef,
and
Georgia
bouncing across her brain. She was Bruno’s fucking sous-chef.

Claudia worked her way around the table, introducing Tonio and Vanessa, grill and sauté respectively; Effie, a beanpole of a guy with bad skin and a teen ’stache, who was garde-manger; and finally, Elena, the diminutive girl sitting next to Bruno, who was the general manager. The rest of the staff would start closer to open. That the Mary Lou Retton–size GM could control a dining room and a kitchen seemed questionable, though sleeping with the head chef probably helped. Their smug smiles, mirrored body language, and not-so-veiled glances were proof enough that Elena and Bruno were involved in way more than a working relationship. The whole situation made Georgia jones for Bernard’s red clipboard and verging-on-insufferable competence. Until she thought about the sleazy boss who came with him.

The champagne idled on the sideboard behind Vanessa, and Georgia was tempted to commandeer it for her personal consumption. But sauced was not the way to begin her career as an Italian sous-chef. For a split second she considered going back to New York, but quickly vetoed the idea. Jobless, penniless, and loveless in sweaty, sticky New York was no way to rebound. She joined in for the team toast to “the success of Trattoria Dia!” mentally counting the days until her time in San Casciano was done, careful not to empty her glass with one very large sip.

B
runo was killing her. It was day five of Georgia’s life as a sous-chef, and her boss was driving her crazy. Everything about him irritated her: the beady eyes that tracked her every move, the hangnailed thumb he stuck into her sauces, the gurgly throat-clearing that followed his commands (“More fire, less salt!” was his favorite anti-Georgia admonition). Clearly, he felt the same way about her. Wrinkling his nose as if he’d just lost a sneeze, he tasted whatever she made, grunting if he didn’t hate it, and fake-retching if he did. Then he’d remind her, as if he hadn’t a thousand other times, that the only people who could cook Italian food were, naturally, Italians. Except him. His food was reliable, consistent, sometimes very good. But it lacked the flashes of brilliance she expected from the head chef at a Claudia Cavalli restaurant. That he was her boss and not the other way around was eating her up.

So with heavy head and heavier feet she walked into the kitchen that morning, once again the last to arrive. Bruno sat at the table with a laptop propped open in front of him, reading from the screen. The staff huddled around him, their heads
cocked to better hear what he said. No one noticed when Georgia slipped in.