Georgia's Kitchen (21 page)

“The thing is,” Bruno continued, “the recipe’s not really mine, or all mine. I went to the kitchen thinking I’d do some work on the signature dish. When I got there, these beautiful crescent towers were just sitting there, and the recipe was right there in the cookbook.” Bruno paused, allowing Georgia to savor his words.

“I thought they’d make the perfect signature dish. The ingredients come straight from the garden, there’s nothing too complex or expensive, and it’s a plate even the least sophisticated palate would like.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “The only problem is, the ingredients are seasonal. We can’t have a seasonal signature dish.”

Georgia exhaled, puffing out her cheeks. Bruno was right. Much as it killed her to admit it, he was right. Claudia’s entire
food philosophy was built on eating locally and eating seasonally. How could she have overlooked her dish’s fatal flaw?

“So I decided to come up with a cold-weather version using eggplant, wild mushrooms, stewed tomatoes, you get the idea. It’s delicious.” He kissed his fingers to prove his point. “Now I’m looking for the person who created the original.”

“Bruno,” Georgia said as calmly as she could, “do you seriously not know whose recipe it is, or are you effing with me?”

His face fell blank before erupting into a gigantic grin. “Effing with you, whatever that means. Of course I know it’s yours.”

“Are you guys talking about me again?” Effie said. “I keep hearing my name.”

“Georgia,” Bruno said, ignoring Effie, “I think this is the one. I think you did it.”

“I did—” She paused for a second. “I did some of it, Bruno. And you did the rest.”

“I was only joking, Georgia. It’s your dish.”

“Didn’t you hear what Claudia said last night? It’s all about teamwork. And collaboration. My
torta
wouldn’t have a shot without yours to back it up. Teamwork, Bruno.” She couldn’t believe the words coming from her mouth.

“Then in that case,” Bruno said, “the artichoke is better.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“And there is one thing it needed.”

Georgia frowned. “Really? Because I thought it was pretty perfect as is.” Her willingness to share the credit didn’t mean her ego had entirely been snuffed out. “What’d you add?”

“Salt. It needed salt.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No.” He shook his head. “It really did.”

Claudia walked into the kitchen, dressed for the party in a swishy black skirt, a white silk shirt, and large gold hoops.
“Attenzione!”
she shouted. “I need to speak with whoever made what used to be on this plate.” She held up her plate, which was bare save for a slick of pesto. “Right away!”

Bruno and Georgia looked at each other. “That would be us,” Georgia said.

“You two?”

“Us two,” Georgia said.

Claudia looked from one to the other. “Then congratulations, Georgia and Bruno. It looks like you’ve created Dia’s signature dish!”

Bruno threw his arms around Georgia’s waist and he half lifted, half tilted her off the ground in a bear hug. Her strappy sandals dangled above the floor.

“Put me down,” Georgia said. He didn’t move a muscle. “Bruno, put me down now!”

He pulled his hands away and she landed with a thud. “Whoops,” he said.

She straightened the bodice on her green shift, which was the same color as her eyes, and which Lo had insisted she buy despite its hefty price tag. “Don’t ever pick me up again,” she said with the slightest hint of a smile. “Just because we scored the signature dish together doesn’t mean you can pick me up.” But she burst out laughing, and so did Bruno.

“And what do you call your delicious dish?” Claudia asked when they had stopped laughing.

Georgia glanced at Bruno, who nodded.
“Sole e luna,”
she said. “The sun and the moon.”

“Wonderful.” Claudia clapped. “So, could this mean that the two of you might consider spending your holiday weekend together?” She threw an arm around each of them and kissed their cheeks, leaving shiny lipstick smudges behind. Air kissing was so not her style.

Georgia smiled. “Bruno and I are finally friends, Claudia. Let’s not push it.”

“You’re right,” Claudia said. “Besides, Bruno seems to have his hands full these days.”

Bruno turned pink. Though everyone knew they were an item, he and Elena tried to keep their relationship under wraps. Or had, until the previous night when in a meandering monologue directed at Claudia, Elena mentioned him and his measurable assets at least ten times. The salami was officially out of its casing.

“Anyway,” Claudia continued, “friends are so underrated these days.” She gave Bruno and Georgia each a little shove. “Now go enjoy the party. It could be the last one for a very long time.”

The dining room was beginning to fill with fashionable Italians, expats, and industry people, none of whom Georgia knew, all eager to check out Claudia’s latest venture. Amazingly, after weeks of running behind schedule, the restaurant was not only finished, but beautiful. The floors had been whitewashed to complement the pale pistachio plaster walls, the uncomfortable chairs replaced by graceful dove-gray armchairs upholstered in white-and-gray ticking. Tables covered in crisp white linen ringed the room. A fireplace of antique bricks held logs of white birch, and a spray of peonies in a large glass vase sat on the worn-walnut mantel. Claudia had created a space equally suited for an afternoon lunch on a sunny day or a late-night dinner on a stormy evening. If the food lived up to the decor, Trattoria Dia was sure to be a culinary coup.

A waiter with a tray of Bellini passed by, and Bruno grabbed two, handing one to Georgia. Before they could toast their victory, Vanessa rushed over, scooped a drink from the same tray, and almost knocked the poor waiter down.

“Oops, sorry,” she said over her shoulder. “Heard about the sole e luna. Congratulations, guys.” Though Vanessa had hoped to create the dish herself, she was glad for Georgia and half glad for Bruno. “This must be your night, Georgia.”

“Well, it’s not just mine, it’s Bruno’s too—”

“No, I mean because
he’s
here. Gianni. And he asked about you.”

Georgia scoped out the dining room as nonchalantly as possible, which was never as nonchalantly as one would like, then turned back to Vanessa. Bruno had been summoned to the patio by a pale, Panna-swilling Elena mumbling something about air.

“I don’t see Gianni, Vee, but there’s Gabri and Cesca.” Georgia waved to her Florentine friends. Claudia had told the staff to invite whomever they wanted, and Gabri and Cesca topped Georgia’s two-person list. Before she could make her way through the crowd to greet them, she felt a pinch on her waist. She turned and looked up into the long-lashed eyes of Gianni.

“
Buona sera,
Georgia.” His hand brushed her hip bone. He wore a navy sport coat, a pink dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and pressed jeans. His curls framed his face in Botticelli corkscrews, and she resisted the urge to pull one down and watch it
boing
back into place. They greeted each other with double air kisses.

“Congratulations,” he said, motioning to the dining room with his hand. “The restaurant is really beautiful. You must be very proud.”

“Claudia is the one who should be proud. I just work here.” But she beamed nonetheless.

“I thought Americans were so boastful, but you are so modest.” He pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. “And may I say, how lovely you are tonight.”

Before she could respond, Gabri charged over. “Georgia,” he said, pulling Cesca behind him, “this place looks amazing!”

“It really does,” Cesca echoed. “We’re so excited for you.”

“It’s so great to see you guys!” Georgia hugged her friends, who looked as if they’d arrived straight from the runway of an Armani fashion show. She started to make introductions, but it turned out Gianni already knew Gabri and Cesca, and in the way most Italians did, they had much to chat about. The room was packed, and waiters dressed in gray twill pants and starched white shirts passed trays of salvia fritta, polpetti, and crostini misti, while Paolo Conte’s scratchy baritone rumbled through the room. The party was suddenly in full swing, having crossed that crucial line from small gathering of acquaintances making small talk to roomful of revelers eating and drinking way too much.

Holding a tall, clear glass of something that was not water, Vanessa beelined to Georgia and nudged her in the ribs.

“The mysterious Sergio is here. He’s talking to Claudia on the patio. And he’s
magnifico
.” Vanessa flipped her thick brown hair, worn loose to her waist for the first time since Georgia had known her, into the face of an unsuspecting server, the same one she had almost knocked down earlier. “Excuse me. Is it hot in here or is it just me?” She wiped her sleeve across her forehead.

“Sergio’s here?” It seemed odd that Claudia’s estranged boyfriend would show for the party, but Georgia had more pressing issues to deal with. “I’ll meet him later. I’m sort of busy right now.” She gestured with her head to Gianni, who was laughing at something Gabri had said.

“Ohhh,” Vanessa whispered. “How’s it going?”

“So far, so good. I’ll fill you in later.” When Georgia turned back to her friends, Gianni was gone. She spotted him laughing
by the fireplace with a willowy blonde and cringed as his fingertips grazed her bare shoulder.

Cesca frowned at Gianni and shook her head. “That guy may as well have a
W
tattooed on his forehead.”

“A
W
?”

“For ‘womanizer.’ I’d say he’s slept with at least a third of the women here.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. He used to date a friend of mine. His idea of a relationship is three dates: on the first you establish the relationship, on the second you consummate it, and on the third you end it.” Cesca patted Georgia’s shoulder. “But he is cute.”

“He is.” Georgia grabbed a Bellini from a waiter passing by and snuck another peek at Gianni. “Too bad about that three-date thing.”

Three Bellini, one Campari-tini, a truly noxious concoction swilled from a martini glass, and half a
vin santo
later, three dates sounded fine. In fact, Georgia thought, they might as well skip the first date entirely and get right to the second. What was wrong with fooling around a little? She’d just ended a seven-year relationship. She was in Italy. It was time.

Vanessa, Effie, Tonio, Bruno, and some of the other staff had taken over the outdoor patio and sat at a round table littered with empty glasses and crushed cigarette packs. Effie was at last in charge of the music, and Tom Waits wailed across the moonlit night. It was way past cocktail hour and the party was over, the guests having moved on to dinner at neighboring trattorias or villas. As her friends drunkenly deconstructed the Italian culinary canon (
Silver Spoon
for casual cooks, Pellegrino Artusi’s
Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well
for diehards),
Georgia rose on wobbly legs. She had to find Gianni. And, she thought, he better have eighty-sixed the blonde.

“Off to bed,” she said to her friends, offering a lame wave. “G’night.”

She pushed open the
melanzana
-colored door—so much prettier sounding than
eggplant
—and tiptoed into the kitchen like a high school girl sneaking in past curfew. The cleaning crew had done their job well, and the kitchen sparkled like a brand-new engagement ring. In two days, it would be a madhouse, but for now the subway tiles gleamed, the stainless steel shone, the rubber jigsaw-puzzle floor was so clean you could eat off it. The only sounds were the persistent hum of the walk-in and the even more persistent hum of the partyers outside.

A bunch of daisies in an illy coffee can sat on the desk, and Georgia absentmindedly fingered the white petals. Momentarily derailed from her Gianni-seeking mission, she contemplated the path that had led her to Dia. The breakup, the firing, the planning, the waiting—it had been a long journey with more twists and kinks than her hair after a hot summer day at the beach. If everything did really happen for a reason, then this—the kitchen, the restaurant, Claudia, her new friends, San Casciano—was the reason. Her eyes moistened. The booze was making her wistful, an emotion she avoided like canned olives.

She heard a whoosh of air and a handful of footsteps as someone passed through the swinging door from the dining room into the kitchen. Attempting to compose herself, she cleared her throat, forced her lips into a smile, and turned to face the interloper. Her smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. It was the smell she recognized first, and her eyes went wide at the first whiff.

“Hi. You’re that guy I met in Florence.” Her eyes traveled to the sewing-needle scar under his left eye.

“I knew it’d be you,” he said, smiling. “I knew you were the American working for Claudia.”

“Georgia!” Claudia walked into the kitchen. “You’ve been hiding all night. I’m so glad to see you.” She placed her hand casually on the man’s back, and in that one gesture Georgia understood everything. On that balmy spring night in Florence he’d lamented the loss of family and love in favor of career and success. He’d been talking about Claudia.

“Hi, Claudia,” Georgia said.

“I see you’ve met Sergio?”

“No, not really. Hello, I’m Georgia.” She stuck out her right hand, offering an awkward American greeting. There was no way she’d risk getting closer to that smell.

“Pleased to officially meet you, Georgia. I’m Sergio.” He turned to Claudia. “Georgia and I crossed paths in Florence, outside of Benci. Only we didn’t know who each other was.” He chuckled. “Although I had a feeling.”

They shook hands, and Claudia threw one arm around Georgia and the other around Sergio. “Oh, I love Benci. And I’m so happy you two have finally met. Officially.”

“So am I,” Georgia lied.

“I am too.” Sergio held Georgia’s gaze for a second longer than necessary.

Claudia opened a drawer in the filing cabinet and pulled out an old bottle of grappa with a yellowing label. “My lucky grappa. My first boss, my mentor who taught me everything, gave it to me twenty years ago. I only drink it on very special occasions, and only with very dear friends.” She filled two cordials and handed one to Sergio and one to Georgia. “Tonight we have two wonderful things to celebrate.” She glanced at Sergio, who was grinning. “To my husband-to-be, Sergio, and”—she patted her belly—“to our baby on the way.”