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“No kidding.” I put the window down, given the unseasonably warm afternoon. May is hit-or-miss. Some days it’s like the middle of July, and others, you’d swear spring hadn’t arrived yet. “Although when I left, it was plenty busy enough. But the new burner will definitely help.”
The annual Italian festival, known locally as Festa, attracts people from well beyond Bridgewater. Thanks to a lifetime working for my parents, the ins and outs of Festa aren’t new to me. Though this is my first time not working in Mom and Dad’s tent.
“Sucked that it rained yesterday.”
I watch as familiar buildings whiz by. “Yeah, but the weekend’s looking good.”
Closing the doors on the restaurant for four days wasn’t an easy call. But not attending Festa as an Italian restaurant wasn’t a possibility. And staffing both just wasn’t in the cards for me. Some manage it, but like my parents, I decided to give Festa 100% of my attention.
“How’s it going on Lincoln Ave?” I ask.
Festa is a one-square-block festival around the courthouse, each street host to as many tents as the street can possibly fit. My parents are clear across the other side of the festival.
“Good. Although Mrs. Forsythe ordered twenty trays for the school, without bothering to call ahead.”
“Oh geez. And of course Dad caved.”
If that old bat tried to order twenty trays of pizza just before the busiest night of the festival, I’d have told her to pound sand. Mostly because she told Enzo his reading disability would keep him from getting into college. I’ll never forgive her for that. I hate when people project their own limitations on others.
“Of course he did.”
“Is it strange, not working the family pizza tent?”
To be honest, it’s more than strange. Every year since I was tall enough to see over the table, I was collecting money or scurrying to get extra napkins for customers.
“Yeah, but it’s also pretty cool to be running the show.”
“I’m proud of you, Tris,” Gian says in a rare display of his serious side. “Always knew you’d open up someday. Mom said you got a letter about some fancy award?”
“I did.” Not one to toot my own horn, I change the subject. “Thanks, G. And I appreciate your help getting the word out.”
Gian snorts. “You’re paying me, brother.”
“True.”
Gian runs his own ad agency, so he’s been a huge asset since we opened. And yeah, I’m paying him, but only a fraction of what he typically charges. And that’s only because he has employees to pay, although I’d never let him work for me for free, as he once suggested.
“Speaking of, you said we need to start talking about a fall promotion already? Seems early to me.”
Gian laughs. “Early? I have clients finalizing plans for campaigns starting next year. It’s never too early.”
We round the corner, past the Wheelhouse, an iconic building in Bridgewater that sits on the river, its old waterwheel still functional, although it’s only used now for ambiance. On the ground floor, half of the refurbished old building is a bakery and the other half, a bar. Upstairs, my sister-in-law’s mother runs a gift shop.
“So what are you thinking?” I ask.
They say never to mix family with business, but that’s never been a problem with the DeLucas. All of us have worked for the pizza shop at some point. Lusanne still splits time between the shop and my restaurant, among other things. We both use Gian to advertise.
And then there’s Enzo.
“Depending on the new location, the marketing strategy may have to change.” I’d been talking to him and my dad about the possibility of expanding and just recently decided to pull the trigger.
“I say we hit the lakeside angle hard,” he says. “Differentiate it from Leoni’s, which seems to be picking up steam under new ownership.”
I wondered when he’d get around to that.
“Speaking of . . .”
“Stop,” I say.
