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I didn’t have time for that, nor was she staying, nor was I in any condition to discuss the arrangement going forward last night since I was basically a zombie chef who had worked way too long. Had I been a little short with her? Probably. But it wasn’t like we were friends or even know each other that well. I had no obligation to small talk or catch up, especially at midnight.
If I hadn’t gone to bed, I would have been tempted to pry away some of the concrete surrounding her thoughts, and that wouldn’t serve either of us. So, instead, I shut myself in here.
But now? Now I’m wondering if she is up too. Is she an early riser, or is she more of a night owl? Or maybe a bit of both, like myself. Does August like to eat breakfast or opt for coffee only? God, I hope she has a big appetite because anyone who doesn’t start their day with fluffy waffles or an out-of-this-world omelet is just sad to me.
Does August like to workout before the sun rises, or does she like to quietly take in the morning with the newspaper? What will she do today, and why is she here in the first place? All these thoughts run through my head now that we are in such close proximity. After finding her sleeping on Warren’s couch last night and now having her as my short-lived roommate, a curiosity about her has ignited and won’t be put out.
She’s been gone for four years and is now mysteriously back, and is staying in this house for what reason?
Not that I’ll ask her any of these or mention it to my family. As soon as we figure this little living snafu out, she’ll be out of my direct line of sight and, therefore, out of mind. I don’t have time for anything besides the restaurant, and I’m sure my family would be all too happy to remedy whatever problem brought her back here. After all, they’re always eager to jump to August’s aid, much to my annoyance. My family is much more compliant when it comes to providing any support the girl sleeping across the hall needs. When I need something? It’s like pulling teeth compared to what they’ll do for her.
My jealousy propels me from the bed, wanting to end this line of thought and get my day started.
There is only one other person I’ll allow to share my kitchen space while I’m creating and brainstorming, and she’s already at Hope Pizza when I arrive about fifteen minutes after getting out of bed.
Nonna is up to her elbows in sugar and flour, throwing dough against one of my stainless-steel worktables like the pro she is.
“Good morning.” I smack a kiss on her cheek as I pass.
“Your father didn’t like that pasta dish you put on the menu this week. Said it was too fancy for the customers.” Nonna doesn’t take even one second to sugarcoat me, per her usual bluntness.
“Well, doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m the head chef now, and it’s my menu.” My mood instantly sours.
“But your father worked for this town and restaurant for years, so you might want to listen to him. He knows what sells,” she says, not looking up as I hit the machine to brew a double espresso, which I’ll gulp back like a piping hot shot just as soon as it’s ready.
Because what sells is also how we make money. It’s how the kitchen stock is accounted for, how the market lists are curated, and how we stay even-keeled on our production and costs. To keep the restaurant in the green, we have to keep people coming in. To keep them coming in, we have to keep them eating food they love, that they’ll return to over and over again.
It’s the constant struggle I have here and what my elder relatives are always nagging me about. I’m used to working in kitchens where creativity trumps fiscal responsibility. Where waste is encouraged if it means a fabulous dish that will win awards. I come from a world where innovative menus are applauded, damn the prices and costs.
Being the head chef of my family-owned restaurant means I can’t just be that whacky, zany artist in the kitchen. I also have to weigh how the popularity of certain menu items will impact our bottom line, and I’ve never been a business or numbers guy. It pisses me off most days, especially since I’m trying to put my own spin on the next generation of Hope Pizza.
Every man in my family before me has had that shot, but it feels like my family, my father in particular, is trying to stifle mine.
“And yet, you’re just allowed to make whatever you want on whatever day of the week,” I grumble.
“Watch your tone with me, little one. I practically invented this place, and my footsteps are grooved into the floor much more than yours are,” Nonna scolds.
“Sorry.” I gulp back my espresso, the liquid burning as it goes down.
But finally, after a fitful sleep and the drama with August keeping me from truly resting, I feel a bit of energy flowing through my veins.
“You going to try that garlic tomato basil pasta again today?” Nonna eyes me from across the counter as I bring ingredients over to my station.
I nod, kind of wishing I was alone. I fucked up yesterday on the new iteration of tagliatelle I was trying to make to spice up an old dish on our menu. Nonna had been there to witness it, and one of the things that pissed me off the most was failing on a culinary level in front of anyone. I was an elite chef, one of the most up-and-coming in the country, if not the world, before returning to my roots. I should be able to make fucking pasta, and yet it had come out all lumpy and overcooked yesterday.
“Make sure to roll it out thinner,” she remarks.
“You’re awful chatty this morning.” I try to keep the bite out of my voice.
“God, you remind me of your great-grandfather so much. Your nonno was a calming presence in the kitchen, all affable and easygoing. But you? You’re all my father-in-law. Yeah, yeah, you try to play it off like you’re the carefree baby of the family, so goofy and arrogant in your chef’s coat. But I see it, my little one. That unchecked, intense determination under it all. That bite of venom you’ve got in you. Don’t let that steal your joy, Evan. My father was a wonderful man, but an angry one by the end.”
Nonna talks like she’s predicting my future when I’m just a twenty-something trying to cook my ass off because I love it. But something in her message rings true, even if I want to ignore it. That gross taste of bitterness, the tiny drip, drip, drip of frustration … someday, that’ll become a flood that drowns me or makes me snap.
Though I should address it, I all but swipe it out of my brain, focusing instead on the pasta. I slip into the zone I usually occupy when cooking, where nothing else exists. I knead, chop, add, season, laminate, cut, boil, and all the other techniques I picked up in school and during on-the-job training. I let my experiences in Italy’s Amalfi region cloud my brain of the incredible chefs I met there who put such care and precision into simple, authentic ingredients.
By the time the pasta is drying, I hear noise coming from down the hallway. Nonna and I aren’t alone anymore, and one look at the clock tells me that the rest of our family, plus some of our wait staff, is probably coming in for lunch.
Which means it’s time to confront my brother-in-law about how the hell he and Alana messed up so badly that I was faced with a braless August last night.
