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“No one knows me over there.” One of the benefits of being out of town for the past few years.
The common wisdom in Bridgewater is that everyone knows everyone, and everything, around here. But aside from its owner, I can’t think of anyone who works there that will recognize me. The rest of the DeLuca clan is at the pizza tent. I know that for a fact because I walked by there earlier.
And I also know Tristano isn’t there either. I may have happened to see him leave earlier with his brother when I was getting change from my car.
“I’ll be right back. Stealth mission. Wish me luck.”
Pulling my hat down even farther, I ignore Phil’s laugh and slip under the front table of the tent. An accordion plays “That’s Amore” from the stage at the end of the block as Italian flags hang from just about everywhere.
Mom loved Festa. At least, according to Dad. I have vague memories of working it when I was younger, but those last few years when she was sick, Leoni’s didn’t have a tent. It took me a bunch of years, and lots of therapy, before I could even bring myself to come back. Too many things I associated with the years Mom was sick.
Cancer fucking sucks.
Before I can make it to DeLuca’s tent, one of Leoni’s best customers stops me. “Hey, Evie.”
“Hi, Doctor Dean.”
Everyone calls him that, and I often wonder why not justDean. Then again, I’m Chef Evie at work, whether I’m in the kitchen or not.
“Heading to your tent now. Please tell me you guys brought the carbonara?”
“We did. But seriously, Dean, I’m going to have to get you to try something different one of these times.”
Dean smiles, his dimples showing. Just a few years older than me, he’s a total catch. My head waiter has been known to sit him near the kitchen where I typically pop in and out all night. And though he’ll make some girl really lucky, it won’t be this one.
I have very little time to date. As an obstetrician, he probably has even less.
More importantly, he doesn’t make my heart feel like it’s about to leap out of my chest and do an Irish jig when I’m around him.
Not like . . .
Ugh. Stop it, Evie.
“Never,” Dean says, getting in line at my tent.
“In that case, enjoy.”
“See ya later,” he says as I wave and walk away. Toward enemy territory.
To be fair, although he’s a competitor, Tristano isn’t exactly the enemy. I have a healthy competition going with many of Bridgewater’s restaurateurs, but we’re all pretty friendly. DeLuca’s, of course, is Italian. But it’s in an entirely different part of town, on the lake. Unlike his beautiful waterfront setting, we attract foot traffic being right downtown.
Our success might be enough for some, but not me. I want to take us into the stratosphere.
Looking down as I jump in line, I peek up from under my hat to see a pretty smooth operation behind the counter. I’m not surprised. Having grown up in the business, Tris isn’t new to the game.
I take a deep breath, noting different smells than our tent. DeLuca’s menu stays mostly the same, their homestyle appetizers and main courses always served with homemade pasta, with Tristano’s tagliatelle al ragù becoming famous.
Our menu, on the other hand, changes often depending on what I find at the farmer’s market. We have two completely different styles, and I can already smell the difference.
“Can I help you?” a young woman asks as I make it to the counter.
I don’t look up. “An order of fried ravioli, please.”
Why didn’t I just send someone over here? This is ridiculous.
“Four fifty, please.”
Is he nutso? Who would want to deal with change, especially on a weekend night? In a few hours, none of us will even have time to pee until the festival shuts down for the night. “Balls to the walls,” as Phil called it.
