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The room goes so quiet, you could hear a noodle drop. Allie’s mom’s jaw drops. “You’re going to show him how to make your red sauce?”
He cracks his knuckles. “He’s our honored guest.”
Huh, based on the look on his face, I’m not sure he actually means that. I stand, watching as aprons are hung on a hook on the wall, and the rest of the family disperses. Enzo gathers the ingredients and places them on the island, then gets out a big knife, a wooden spoon, and … is that … a razor blade? Yup, it is. I’m starting to think coming here was a bad idea after all.
“Have a seat.” He gestures to a stool that’s tucked under the island. I do what he said, then watch as he pulls apart a garlic bulb. “Do you know how to make a red sauce?”
“I know how to open a jar,” I answer with a grin.
Okay, that joke didn’t land. He’s glaring again.
“No, not from scratch.”
“From scratch is the only way to make it,” he says. “The secret to a good red sauce is to slice the garlic so thin it melts into the olive oil and disappears.”
I watch as he peels each clove, then starts to slice them with the razor blade.
“Oh hey, they did this in that movie Goodfellas,” I remark.
Enzo looks at me like I’ve sprouted horns. “I didn’t learn to cook from the TV.”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t.” All right, Hudson, dial back the jokes. Enzo’s not your audience.
The world’s most uncomfortable silence follows while he painstakingly slices each clove until there’s a big pile of them on the cutting board, each one paper-thin. Enzo picks up the big knife and a red onion. Chopping it in half with a loud, decisive slap, he says, “So, why are you really here, Mr. Finch?”
“I wanted to pay Allie back for helping me out the other day.”
He pauses for a second and looks over his glasses at me. “The real reason.”
I was lonely and bored. And I’m insanely attracted to her. “That’s it. Honestly.”
He stares me down while I meet his gaze, then he turns his attention back to the onion. “A good red sauce needs a lot of time to simmer on the stove. Slowly. Low heat for several hours. Time is the key ingredient because it’s the only thing that allows all the flavors to come through.”
In other words, don’t try to sleep with my daughter for a few years. “That makes sense.”
“Of course, you have to start with the right ingredients because without that, it doesn’t matter how many hours on the stove you give it, it’ll taste like garbage.”
“I feel like I should be taking notes,” I answer.
He gives me the over-the-glasses glare again. “You should, because cooking is life. What you do in the kitchen teaches you how to live. Take my wife and me—we had the right ingredients to make a good marriage. We’re both from the same place, so we share the same beliefs about the world and how to raise a family. This is very important for a happy life.”
In other words, Allie and I don’t have the right ingredients to make a happy life. Even though marriage is the very last thing on my mind, somehow having her dad suggest I’m not good enough brings out the defiant streak in me. “Well, one could also say that having differences could keep things interesting.”
“No, you don’t want interesting,” he says, waggling one finger at me. “Interesting means arguments you never solve. You want harmony, which only comes from growing up with the same values, and values come from one’s culture.”
“Sure, but we’re all Americans here, right? Isn’t that enough?”
He shakes his head. “No, not at all. America is big pot of too many possibilities. People throwing anything they want into the pot. This is why there are so many divorces. People like you thinking a good sauce can be made with the wrong ingredients.”
People like me? Yeesh. “I’ve never even tried to make a sauce, so…”
“Why not? You’re getting a little old to let the sauce simmer properly.”
Okay, I’m getting a little confused with all this sauce and marriage talk. And also, he’s calling me old? This guy is two pointy ears and some green makeup away from being Yoda. “I guess I’ve never found compatible ingredients or just one compatible ingredient?”
“Or maybe you’re not the right ingredient. Maybe you’re pepper, sprinkling a little here and a little there in every dish, instead of being like the tomato paste that only goes in one thing—a red sauce.”
Okay, so he’s got me there. I have done my fair share of sprinkling myself a little here and a little there. But I can’t exactly tell him that, now can I? “To be honest, I’m not sure what I am, but I don’t think it’s pepper.” Glancing at the items on the counter, I say, “Maybe I’m more like … the ground meat?”
