The Queen of Minor Disasters (10 page)

She’s already dressed in a
lavender pants suit and cream colored blouse and looks much younger than her
sixty-two years. I
really
hope
I’ve inherited her genes.

My father comes down the steps
looking sharp in a crisp white shirt and grey slacks. His hair is more salt
than pepper, but it looks great on him, and he’s gotten some sun over the
weekend (I don’t know how, since he never steps foot on the beach).

  He walks into the kitchen
wringing his hands. “You almost ready to go?” he asks looking at me.

I’m still wearing my yellow
and white pajamas and haven’t even
thought
about
a shower yet. Last night was a late one, and we didn’t get home until after
1:00 a.m. “I’m getting in the shower right now,” I say getting up from the
table. I walk across the den still holding my coffee cup. I still haven’t
talked to them much since the whole fight about Drew, but I’ve let the whole moving
out thing go. Who wants to live with strangers anyway?

“You better hurry up or we’re
going to be late,” my mom calls after me.

Mass doesn’t start for another
hour, and it takes all of five minutes to walk to church, so I have no idea why
my parents are so concerned about time. I peek into Mario and Dante’s room and
see that they are both still asleep. Typical. No one’s telling them to get a
move on. That’s the way it is in an Italian family though. The boys can do no
wrong, and the girls get dumped on.

Pietro comes out of his
bedroom, wearing dark jeans and a blue polo shirt. He absolutely
refuses
to dress up during the weekend,
saying that he wears enough suits during the week. He’s wearing sneakers, which
I’m sure Gina will veto once she sees them.

“Gina’s in the shower,” he
says as he passes me. “She should be out in a minute.”

“Nice sneakers,” I mumble and
walk to my room.

I decide on a pale blue cap
sleeve dress and brown wedge sandals. We’re going to brunch in Atlantic City
after Mass and I’m not sure if I’ll have time to change before work. This dress
is versatile enough to wear to brunch and work.

My parents were right. St
Luke’s is packed with families. There are new fathers holding tiny infants in
hand, young fathers with rows of small children dressed in their best, and
mature father’s like my own, who enters the pew followed by his four tall sons,
wife, daughter, and future daughter-in-law.

Fr. Jim gives a wonderful
homily about the importance of fathers as role models for their families. As he
talks, I look at my brothers, each one so different, yet they all seem to know
what they want in life. They all have direction. Whereas the only thing I know
is that I have no clue what I want to be when I grow up. At eleven, this would
be a problem, at twenty-seven it is a disaster.

By the end of Mass, we’re all
hungry. The ride to Atlantic City takes about forty minutes and we arrive just
in time for our 1:00 reservation at the Hilton.

You’d think that we are big
foodies since we have two restaurants in the family, but the truth is, we don’t
get out to each too much. You wouldn’t either if you owned a restaurant. Most
of the time, when we do go out, we’re disappointed and wished we’d just stayed
home.

The exception to this is
Atlantic City.

My parents are secret
degenerate gamblers.

Ok, maybe not
degenerates
. They never lost a
house
or anything.

But the point is, they love to
gamble. And they spend big bucks at the Hilton, their favorite spot in AC.
Which means one thing: they get lots of comps.

So usually, when we go out to
eat, it’s in a casino, and today is no exception.

We take our seats at a long
alcove table, which is perfect for my family. It gives us the right amount of
privacy, since we have a tendency to get a little loud. It seems like there is
always something to scream about, but today, we can just enjoy each other’s
company and the delicious food on the buffet table.

Gina places her Louis Vuitton
clutch on the seat next to mine before getting in line with my brother.  I wait
for my parents and walk with them.

Typically, buffets are crass,
especially brunch ones, which usually serve dried out eggs, soggy hash browns,
and greasy sausage links, but
this
buffet is different.

Solid ice sculptures line the
tables and fruits and vegetables are transformed into colorful flowers filling
giant vases along the buffet. There are three carving stations serving prime
rib, French cut lamb chops, and porchetta, which my mom lines up for first.

Tuxedo clad servers man the
chafing dishes, which are filled with different kinds of pasta, but none of us
will get in that line.

Two chefs work the omelet
station while another serves fresh Belgium waffles hot off the press. The faint
smell of brandy hits me and I see the flambé station. I make a mental note to
save room for Bananas Foster.

Dante makes his way towards
the salads, where servers are tossing torn romaine leaves with house made
Caesar dressing. He lifts his plate to receive some.

Mario and I tackle the raw
bar, where a chef freshly shucks the oysters and sets them on our plates. I
scan the ice packed shrimp cocktail and take three jumbo pieces then move
towards the red slivers of Ahi tuna. I take a cup of soy sauce for dipping.

Back at the table, Gina
patiently waits for everyone to sit. Her plate is full of greens dressed in
raspberry vinaigrette, grilled vegetables, and one thin slice of prime rib.
She’s been off dairy for a month now, saying it’s better for the skin, and, I
have to admit, she is glowing. Maybe I’ll try to give up dairy. I don’t eat too
much of it anyway. Except for my morning cappuccino. And the occasional gelato.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’d rather have raging acne than give up cheese.

“Champagne?” the waiter behind
us asks.

We both look at each other and
smile. “Yes please,” I say.

The waiter proceeds around the
table and once everyone is served, my father stands to make a toast. “To my
family,” he says raising his glass. “May we always love and respect one
another, no matter what the future brings.”

We clink glasses but I can’t
help feeling this toast is ominous.

 I look at my mother, who
nervously picks at some French toast, then at my father, who is working his way
through king crab legs.

Something’s up.

My second round at the buffet
is for dessert, and I proceed to the flambé table for my Bananas Foster. The
chef sautés the bananas and then adds the shot of brandy, making a large red
flame in the pan. My stomach turns as I watch it burn.

Somehow, I can’t shake the
feeling that my life is quickly going up in flames. I mean, I am twenty-seven,
with no career path, and worse, no boyfriend.

 As soon as I take my seat, my
dad stands up again, and clinks his fork on his wine glass. Pietro and Gina
kiss, as if practicing for their wedding.

Honestly, sometimes they’re
too
much.

“Your mother and I have an
announcement to make,” Dad says.

My heart begins to pound.

I knew it. Something’s wrong.

Instantly my mind reels and I
start thinking of the worst-case scenarios.

I can imagine it already.
They’re getting a divorce. After thirty-nine years of marriage my father’s
taken a girlfriend, and he’s about to break the news. Of course, my mother will
play it cool and act like she’s okay, but later on tonight, I’ll have to feed her
chocolate cake and vodka while she cries. Come to think of it, that’s not
really likely.

Oh God. My dad is sick. He’s
probably got some incurable illness that can’t even be treated. I’ll have to
drop out of school to care for him. Wait, I graduated college five years ago.

Has it really been five years?
It seems like just yesterday I was walking down the steps of Keating Hall
surrounded by my closest friends. I really need to figure out my life. What
have I been doing for the past five years?  I mean, look at Julie. She’s built
a career while I’ve been wasting the time away, slinging spaghetti and
meatballs…

The sound of my dad clearing
his throat knocks me back into the moment.

I close my eyes. Here it
comes.

“We want to thank our
wonderful children for all the hard work that you’ve done over the years at La
Cucina and now, at Lorenzo’s,” my dad begins.

 He stops to look at each and
every one of us with a smile.

Tears are welling up in his
eyes.

Oh God. I
knew
something was wrong. I
knew
it. I’ve always had a sixth sense
about these sorts of things…

 “Your mother and I appreciate
all the years of sacrifice that you’ve put into the business. When we first
opened La Cucina, your mother was scared that it would tear the family apart.
Instead, we’ve both been impressed at how it’s made all of us stronger.”

My mother smiles and squeezes
my father’s hand.  They lock eyes and she nods for him to go on. “But your
mother and I are tired. We want to enjoy our old age.”

“And grandchildren!” my mom
pipes in, winking at Pietro and Gina.

“So that is why we’ve decided
to sell La Cucina,” my dad says with a sigh. “We wanted you all to be the first
to know.”

My father keeps talking but
I’m not listening.

He can’t be serious.

 My brothers and I have
invested so much of our time into the restaurant. It seems crazy that my
parents would even
think
of
selling it.

This is
worse
than an incurable disease.

Ok, I don’t mean that. But
still, this is bad.

Slowly, images of the
restaurant start filling my head like leaves falling from a tree. I see the
first day we opened, watching my parents cut through the ceremonious red tape
over the front door. Then I flash to Lorenzo and I playing war in the storage
room, then, years later, stealing drinks from the bar. I literally grew up in
that place, and just the thought of it closing is too much to handle. How could
they do this?

“How could you do this?” Mario
echoes my thoughts.

“It was time to sell,” my dad
responds as if he is talking about an old car.

“When did you decide this?”
Mario asks. He looks flustered and I don’t blame him. He’s the general manager
of the restaurant. How could my parents make the decision without even telling
him first? I mean, talk about pulling the rug right out from under ya.

“A buyer approached us about a
month ago,” my dad says remaining calm. He takes his seat and reaches for an
apricot tartlet. “And he made us an offer we couldn’t refuse.” He winks at his
own reference to
The Godfather
. 
I image Luca Brasi holding a gun to my dad’s head, while Don Corleone assures
him that either his signature or his brains will end up on the paper. Clearly
he was pressured into it.

We don’t have to stand for
this. I’ll go to the feds if I have to. Rat out whatever goon was behind this.

“So you already sold it?”
Mario asks just as I’m imagining myself as Connie smashing all of her dishes.
It’s always been a secret fantasy of mine to be able to recreate that scene.
Minus the whole husband beating the hell out of me part.

My parents look at each other.
“Yes. He wanted a fast deal,” my mom explains. Her voice sounds as if she’s
pleading with Mario. She knows her son well.