The Queen of Minor Disasters (12 page)

“Perfect,” I say.

“Almost perfect,” Roberto
replies and walks over to the bread bag. “We need a little Lancetti on this
plate.” He grabs two rolls and gives me a wink.

I ignore him and carry my
plate into the dining room. He follows me to the back table, closest to the
waiters’ station. We both sit, still wearing our aprons.

“This is delicious,” he says
after just one bite. “You should write a cook book.”

“Yeah right,” I roll my eyes
and stab a piece of crabmeat.
            “I’m serious,” he insists. “You could be ‘the salad chick’ or
something catchy like that.”

I entertain the thought for a
minute and envision myself on the cover of some girly cookbook, wearing a
frilly pink apron and a fake smile, holding an oversized bowl of mixed greens
and chopped veggies. But the thought is ridiculous. Even the most remedial home
cook knows how to throw a salad together. See, this is exactly the difference
between Roberto and Drew; Drew has foresight and brilliant ideas, while Roberto
studied a dead language and has dead-end ideas.

“So how’d you get stuck
delivering bread?” I ask trying to change the subject. “Shouldn’t you be
translating something?”

He looks at me and laughs.
“Well the job market for a Latin translator is a little slow right now, so I’m
helping my family. I thought of all people you’d understand that.”

“I just don’t get it,” I say.
“Why would you get a PhD in a dead language when you have a bread empire all to
yourself?” I wave a roll in the air to dramatize my point. I’m not sure why I’m
asking him this. Honestly, it’s not like I care or anything.

“You sound like my mother,” he
says and takes a bite.

“Seriously though,” I continue.
“Latin?”

He sighs. “When I graduated
college I was
expected
to run the
family business. But I needed a change. So I packed up and moved to Rome for a
year and got a job bartending.” He looks at me, and forks a piece of crabmeat,
then pops it into his mouth.

“And the other bartenders
spoke Latin?” I ask.

He laughs. “No, I realized
that I wanted something different. And I’d always been interested in Language.
So I enrolled in a PhD program and got a degree.”

“In Latin?”

“In translation. I had to
study Latin, Greek, and Italian.”

“So what are you going to do
now?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I will
take over the family business. Or maybe I’ll get a job doing something else.
Who knows?”

I roll my eyes. He makes the
future seems like a simple thing, when instead, it’s so very complicated.

As we’re finishing lunch the
phone rings. “Lorenzo’s,” I say. “May I help you?”

“Hello, my name is Shirley
Johnston and I’m calling from the Villa Hotel and Casino.”

It’s unusual that we get a
concierge calling from Atlantic City. This reservation is probably for a high
roller.

 “Ok.” Out of the corner of my
eye, I see Roberto cleaning off the table. He picks up the plates and
disappears into the kitchen like he belongs here.

“I’d like to speak to Mr.
Lorenzo DiLucio if possible,” says Shirley, bringing me back to the
conversation.

 So she really is making a VIP
reservation. They
always
ask to
speak to the owners when they’re dealing with a VIP.

“He’s not in at the moment,
may I take a message.” I reach for a pen and paper and write her name down.

“Who am I speaking with?” she
asks.

“This is Stella DiLucio. I’m
the manager here.”

“Then perhaps you can help me.
I’m calling in reference to Mr. Charles Verton.”

My head starts to spin. Mr.
Charles Verton? Chuck? She’s calling about Chuck?

She continues, “How long has
he been employed with you?”

 Then her words click. This is
a reference check.

 “Where are you calling from?”
I swallow.

“The Villa Hotel and Casino in
Atlantic City. Mr. Verton applied for a position with us and I just need to
check his references.”

“Ok” I say. Damn, the Villa is
nice.

“How long has Mr. Verton been
employed at your establishment.” The way she says it makes it seem like she
knows
her job is better.

“He’s worked with us for three
years.” I can barely speak.

“And what does he do there?”

Roberto walks up to the
hostess stand, carrying the keys to his delivery truck. I hold up a finger,
motioning him to wait.

“Chuck’s the sous-chef and is
in charge of all the pastries as well. Can I put you on hold for a moment?”

I click the hold button and
look up at Roberto. “Sorry, this is a pretty important call.”

“It’s okay. I have to run,
actually.” He smiles at me. “We should grab a drink sometime.”

 I’m caught off guard and
before I can stop myself I blurt out something about having a boyfriend.

For a second, he looks taken
aback. Then he flips his keys around his finger and smiles. “Oh, I thought I
heard you guys broke up. Sorry.” He turns to leave and I roll my eyes. I am
such an idiot.

The hold button beeps.
Thankfully.

“All right Bella Stella.
Thanks for lunch,” he says looking back at me.

I give him a wave as he walks
towards the kitchen. I click back to the phone call.

“Sorry to keep you on hold.”

“No problem. How would you
rate Mr. Verton’s performance over the last three years?” she asks.

Where can I even begin? Chuck
has been a dedicated employee, an amazing chef, and a great friend. He’s never
missed a day, and until this moment, has been loyal to my family. My eyes start
to fill with tears.

“Hello?” Shirley says.

“He’s great,” I mumble.

“So you would recommend him?”
she asks.

“Yes.”

When I hang up the phone, I
call Lorenzo, and ask him to come to the restaurant early. I need to talk to
him before Chuck arrives.

The back door opens about
twenty minutes later and I hear Lorenzo turn on the kitchen ventilation system
before entering the dining room. Maybe I don’t need to tell him. I should just
leave it up to Chuck.

“What’s up,” he asks sitting
down. Since my parents made their big announcement, he’s been more willing to
talk.

“I got a weird phone call this
afternoon,” I blab.

“From who?” he asks, suddenly
suspicious.

“A lady from the Villa. She
was calling about Chuck.”

“Yeah,” he says sitting down.
“So what?”

So what?

“She was doing a
reference check
on him.” I can just
imagine Lorenzo flipping out and throwing things all over the kitchen. God,
it’ll be a nightmare.

Lorenzo doesn’t look
concerned. “It’s probably for the fall.”

“Then why would she be calling
now
?”

“I don’t know,” he says.
“Chuck wouldn’t leave in the middle of the summer.”

“You should ask him.”

The phone rings and when I
stand up to answer it Lorenzo goes into the kitchen. I look at my watch. Chuck
will arrive in about five minutes. He’s never late.

***

The night goes smoothly
despite the tension in the kitchen. Everyone has picked up on it. Lucy asked me
three times if everything was okay, and even Frankie seems on edge. I’m the
only one who knows what’s going on, and I still don’t know when Chuck is leaving,
or if he even is. All I know is that the kitchen is quiet, there are no jokes
tonight, no one laughing or shouting, no music blaring from the speakers.

The restaurant is full of
regulars, which makes it easier. With regulars, there are never any complaints,
and even if the service is a bit slow, like tonight, no one seems to notice.

Joe and Diane Shefferd, a
couple in their late sixties who always come in for eggplant parmigiana, are
among the first guests of the night. They are always quick to smile and seem to
be excited to eat out, though they come in at least twice a week. They greet me
with a hug and follow me to their favorite table in the back of the restaurant,
close to the waiters’ station, or “the action” as Mr. Shefferd puts it.

The Hermans are sitting in the
front window with their five kids, calmly eating ravioli and laughing together.
They remind me a lot of us when we were little. Our parents taught us to be
well behaved at restaurants and in church. We knew to sit quietly, talk in low voices,
and not play with our food. None of us would ever dare to throw anything on the
floor of a restaurant any more than we would have at home, so it always shocks
me when customers let their kids run wild here. The Hermans would never do
that.

Mr. and Mrs. Moore sit at the
table closest to me. They are not the kind of couple who sits at a restaurant
without talking. Instead, they really enjoy each other’s company. They even
flirt with each other, which is reassuring given the fact that they’ve been married
for so long.

Looking at them makes me think
of Drew. What went wrong? We were supposed to be that couple. I shake the
thought from my head and channel my inner Gina. We will be that couple. If
everything goes according to plans, we will be that couple.

As if on cue, my cell phone
vibrates in my pocket so I step out front of the restaurant. It’s so loud in
there that it would be impossible for me to talk on the phone, plus, if it is
Drew, I want to hear everything he has to say. I take a deep breath and look at
my phone. It’s my mother.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hello,” she shrieks. I hold
the phone away from my ear a bit. “What’s wrong with your brother?”

“Which one?”

“Lorenzo. I just called him to
tell him we’re not coming down this weekend and he almost hung up on me.”

“Why aren’t you coming down?”

“Your father doesn’t want to
deal with traffic. We’ll be down on Tuesday. What’s wrong with your brother?”
she repeats.

“He’s not having a good
night.”

“Why, what’s going on?”

“I think Chuck is leaving us,”
I say.

“What?” she screams.

“Mom, I’m not sure. I gotta
go. I’ll call you when we finish up.”

At the end of the night, after
I pay all the waiters and the dishwashers have mopped the kitchen, Lorenzo
comes out of the kitchen. Lucy and I are sitting at our usual table, drinking
the leftover wine from the night. I told her about Chuck, so she understands
when my brother plops down in the chair. He’s taken off his chef coat and his
t-shirt is soaked with sweat.

“How many people did we do?”
he asks.

“One fifty-seven.” I say.
“Tomorrow we already have one sixty-four on book.”