Page 85 of Lorenzo

That’s probably the same reason she had the video monitor installed above the new prep counter.

That way, she could dial in and feel a part of our meetings, tastings, and unfortunately, the occasional argument that breaks out between me and Mike. We share the big-picture vision, but sometimes small things get in the way.

Still, it’s a shame Gina can’t be in the kitchen physically and smell the aroma of Chef Paul’s delicious pizzas.

Under Mike’s tutelage, the kid is always experimenting with new techniques and more esoteric toppings.

When the restaurant finally opens, I have complete faith a glowing review of Salvatore’s restaurant will be all over the New York Times Food and Dining section.

“Hey, boss,” says Paul, his tall, lanky frame entering the kitchen. Delivery at the front door. Needs your signature.”

“So sign it.”

“I tried,” Paul says with a shrug. ”He said he needs to give it to you personally.”

Then Paul turns to Mike. “You said you wanted to check out that new spice shop with me. Better go now before they close.”

“Now is good. See you later, Em,” says Mike. Paul waves goodbye.

After they leave, I focus on the work at hand. Biscotti yawns and settles into his daybed on the kitchen floor.

The insistent sound of the doorbell jars me. I’d forgotten completely about the delivery.

I wipe my hands on a red and white checkered dishcloth, then answer it.

“Mrs. Ricci?” a man wearing a bright yellow and red DHL uniform asks me.

“Yes. How can I help you?”

“I have a delivery for you,” he says, holding out medium-sized box.

“That’s me,” I say, reaching out to take it.

The chill hits my palms through the cardboard immediately. It’s that frosty ice cube tray in the freezer kind of cold.

I shift it in my arms and feel the weight redistribute. “Wow. It’s freezing. And heavy too.”

I don’t remember ordering perishable supplies. What can it be. Meat?

Then I remember Mike suggested I order alligator meat from Georgia.

“I’d like Mike to spice it up, see how it works as a pizza topping. I bet a “predator-based” protein would appeal to our core clientele.”

I remember laughing and thinking it was a great idea, but not ordering it.

“Great,” I say, signing for it. “Thank you.”

“I was told that you should look it over and make sure it’s okay before you stick it into the freezer.”

“Got it.”

He salutes me with his cap and walks off in a jaunty fashion.

Happy guy, I think to myself, walking back inside the restaurant.

Biscotti moves closer, takes a sniff, then lets out some sort of doggy squeal as he backs away to a corner of the room.

“Biscotti, quiet,” I say, thinking he can’t be hungry. People feed him snacks all day.