Page 50 of Lorenzo

“Rolls can’t be patented. No monetary value. Just an obscure fact for musty history books.”

A wave of sadness comes over me as I think of Teddy and the generational inheritance that should have been his.

Uncle Eton insisted on selling the restaurant when my parents died, since they were the ones who managed it.

Back then, I was too young to inquire about what happened to the proceeds. Teddy and I never saw a cent.

Well, that’s one more thing to be sorted out at the appropriate time.

I take another glance at Salvatore Ricci. He’s magnetic.

“Gina,” I say, turning to her. “You say you haven’t named the restaurant yet. The more I think about it, the more I believe you should make Salvatore Ricci the restaurant’s official mascot. And design the restaurant concept around him.”

“How do you mean?”

“Give the restaurant a theme that sets the tone. Like the way customers know what to expect when they step into Spago’s pizza restaurant.”

“Spago? Early 1980s kitsch?” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“No. You’re not thinking the right way. Before Wolfgang Puck, pizza was a piece of puffy dough. A blob of sauces. His claim to fame was making pizza fancy by rendering the crust cracker thin. Then brushing it with olive oil and garlic.”

“But what does naming the restaurant after Dante’s ancestor have to do with the menu?”

“The concept defines the menu and all the choices that follow. What’s your concept?”

“Upscale Italian. White tablecloths. $100 tab per person with a killer all-Italian wine list. Yet upbeat and fun, with a DJ spinning tunes,” Gina says, feeding Biscotti a treat.

“So you mean the restaurant will be ‘relaxed and approachable,’” I say, still studying Salvatore’s image.

“Exactly. And even though I disparaged Wolfgang Puck just now, we also planned to serve pizza. We even had a chef lined up. A friend of Luca’s. But that deal fell through.”

“Too bad,” I say, walking toward her. “You’ll find another chef.”

“Not so sure. I’d been searching for a chef doing something special in the pizza space. I have a computer file filled with research, but I had to abandon the search.”

“You can continue your search afterward,” I say.

“Technically,” she says, petting a squirming Biscotti on her lap.

“’Technically’ meaning what?”

She lets out a slow breath.

“In an ideal world, yes. It would be a challenge to continue alone, now that Lorenzo is focused on both the club and casino. But I could do it. The problem is the license.”

“What about it?”

“The State Liquor Authority gave us the permit. The clock doesn’t stop because I’m pregnant. We have to be serving food and pouring liquor before it runs out. If we reapply, we go back to the end of the line.”

“The Ricci family must have powerful friends …”

“Won’t help. Not in today’s world. As of now, the restaurant’s fate is uncertain.”

I look at the whimsical murals, bursting with color and energy.

Gina’s art, and her effort, needs to be seen.

“What must be done to get on track?”