Chapter 1
I can imagine it already.
Drew
will walk through the front doors holding a big bouquet of roses (not that he’s
ever brought me flowers, but you never know, people can change. And anyway,
tonight’s a special night). I’ll be at the hostess
stand, juggling a million things like I always do, but as soon as I see him
wearing one of his Brooks Brothers suits, the world will stop. Slowly, he’ll
walk towards me and hand me the bouquet. Before I can even say “thank you”
he’ll cup my face in his hands and give me kiss. At this point, the entire
restaurant will be watching; service will stop for a minute, as everybody
awaits what’s coming next. Then, without saying a word, Drew will drop down to
one knee and take my hand. He’ll look up at me with those gorgeous blue eyes
and say…
“Um,
Stella,” I hear a female voice snapping me out of my thoughts. Oh, right. I
rest my hands on the hostess stand which I’ve been leaning on for the past
couple hours. I must start taking this job more seriously. But honestly, it
does get a little boring. Not that I mind. I really
do enjoy managing my brother’s restaurant, but the truth is, the place pretty
much runs itself.
Ask
anyone what the best restaurant down the shore is and they’ll say “Lorenzo’s.”
Not to brag or anything, but it’s true. And from the way this night is going,
it looks like our fifth season is off to a great start. If it stays like this,
the summer will be smooth sailing.
“Stella?”
Oh,
right.
I
turn to look at Michelle, one of the waitresses here. She’s been with us for
two summers and is usually fully capable of handling her own section. “What’s
up?”
“Disaster
at table twelve.”
I
scan the restaurant trying not to look too obvious, and then focus my eyes on
the single lady on table twelve. She looks normal enough. Her black hair is
pulled into a tight bun and her skin is a little too bronzed for the second
week of June, but besides that, I don’t see any red flags. “What’s the problem?”
“Her
husband left,” Michelle says with a hint of tension in her voice. She scans the
restaurant, looking at the rest of her tables. “He’s probably just in the
bathroom.” I look at the table again, and see the lady slumped in a chair.
Maybe her husband did leave. Or maybe
this is a ploy to run out on the bill. Well, not on my watch.
I keep my cool, but the thing is, I’m a little
nervous. It’s times like these that I really wish my brother Mario was here.
He’s the General Manager of my family’s other restaurant, La Cucina, and he’d
know exactly what to do.
I hear a sob and my eyes dart directly to
table twelve.
Michelle
looks at me. “I think you need to go over there. She’s pretty drunk.”
I
sigh. Sometimes being a restaurant manager requires more than putting on a nice
dress and smiling at the customers. Those are the times I dread, because
honestly, I never wanted this job in the first place. It was sort of handed to
me with my college diploma (which was in English, not
Restaurant Management, by the way). “Let’s go,” I say and move towards the
table.
The
sobbing continues and a few other people have turned to look at the woman. I
can’t help feeling bad for her, I mean, what if her husband really did leave her? Right here in our restaurant? That can’t be good
karma.
“Hello,”
I say when I get to the table.
She
looks up at me and gives me a weak smile. Her cheeks are stained with mascara
streaks, and she looks a bit severe. I pick up a napkin and hand it to her.
“You
okay?” I ask gently.
“Yes,
I’m fine. Just a little lonely.” She slurs the word “little.”
And
a little drunk.
“Maybe
I can help,” I offer.
“Oh,
it’s really not a big deal,” she sniffles. “My husband just had to go. He’s on
call.”
I
give her a strange look.
“He’s
a doctor,” she snaps.
Oh,
right. I knew he wouldn’t just leave her. Not at Lorenzo’s, our food is too
good.
“What
kind of doctor?” I ask to keep the conversation going. Her tears have dried up
and she’s sort of smiling at me. See, it just goes to show you that a little
kindness goes a long way. That’s the trick to being a manager, of course. I
mean, all you need to do is recognize what people need and serve it up to them.
No biggie.
“He’s
a…” she pauses and her face wrinkles into a scowl, “surgeon.” She sobs again.
“He said he got an emergency call but I know better. I’m not stupid.” I nod my head because it seems like the right
response.
“His
girlfriend called and he just up and left,” she continues. “My therapist said I
should just ignore it, but how is that possible?” She looks at me as though I
have the answers. The only thing I know for sure is that she needs a new
therapist.
I
shrug my shoulders.
“And
the worst part is she’s only thirty,” she
nearly screams. Slowly, she gives me an accusatory look, as if my being nearly
thirty is a mortal sin.
I look around to see other customers staring
at us. Just as I’m about to walk away, it hits me. Of course! This woman
doesn’t need a crap ass therapist to tell her how to react. She needs Food
Therapy!
I’m
a strong believer in Food Therapy, which is the theory that all of life’s
problems can be solved by eating the right foods. I’m not talking about
nutrition here, people. I mean comfort foods.
And I personally know Food Therapy works because just last night I was feeling
frazzled, so I ate some hazelnut gelato and poof, I was one hundred percent
better!
The
major players in my personal Food Therapy repertoire are Bindi hazelnut gelato,
a slice of Chuck’s chocolate orange cake, or my mom’s famous meatballs. I think
of which option would be best for this situation.
“I
have just the thing to make you feel better,” I say putting my arm on the
woman’s shoulder.
She
looks up at me in interest. “Vodka?” She turns to see if we have a bar, which
unfortunately we don’t. Like most restaurants down the shore we’re BYOB.
“Even
better,” I answer quickly. “Just wait
here.”
I
rush up to the dessert display case and reach in for a piece of decadent
chocolate cake. Our sous-chef, Chuck, does an amazing job with all the
pastries, but his specialty is this cake, with its dark chocolate and hint of
orange.
I
cut a thick slice and lay it on a plate, then drizzle some vanilla crème over
it and add candied orange peels as a garnish. If this doesn’t
cure a heartache, I don’t know what will.
I
grab a fork and rush back to the table, just in time. The woman is standing and
scanning the restaurant, looking for God knows what.
“Have
a seat.” I gently push her down into her chair and place the cake in front of
her.
She
looks at it as if she’s mentally calculating all the calories, and then looks
back up at me in frustration. Perhaps vodka would have been a better choice.
“Take
a bite,” I urge.
Skeptically,
she forks a tiny piece and pops it in her mouth. I see the corners of her lips
curl up into a smile. I knew it would
work.
“Just
eat this and I’ll call you a cab,” I say. “Where do you live?”
“29th
Street.”
Our
restaurant is located on one of the most prestigious islands on the Jersey
Shore. About forty miles south of Atlantic City, our island is the smallest of
the cluster off Jersey’s coast and is only seven miles top to bottom. There are
two towns here but little distinction between them, and most people just call
this place “the Island.”
Lorenzo’s
is on 96th Street, the southern part of the Island, and this lady’s
house is on the northern part. Still, a ride will only cost about five bucks,
and she looks so sad and depressed even though she’s eating the cake that I’ll
just spring for the cab.
And
the cake.
Oh,
what the hell. I’ll spring for the whole bill, after all her husband stuck her
with it. She might not even have a credit card with her. I think about this for
a second then confirm my decision even though Lorenzo is constantly yelling at
me over giving things away for free. Sometimes it really is the best option
though. Plus, what does he know about service? He’s cooped up in a closed
kitchen pumping out entrées—not in the circus ring with angry lions like me.
The
cab arrives about ten minutes later, and by then, the heartbroken lady has
cleaned her plate. I walk over to the table and give her my arm. She stands,
though a bit wobbly.
“Dinner
is on me tonight,” I say as I lead her through the restaurant.
“Thanks!”
she gives me a strange look, and then asks, “What’s your name?”
“Stella.”
“That
means star!” she squeals. She’s right, it does. I smile at her.
“The
cab will take you home. Don’t worry about paying him, I got it covered.”
She
throws her arms around me. “Thanks, Star,” she slurs and stumbles out the door.
I
take a deep breath and walk back towards the hostess stand.
I
must say, I’m pretty proud of the way I handled the situation. I’m quite good
at this management stuff. Too bad I don’t plan on making a career out of it
though. Basically, this is my last summer here. I haven’t told anyone yet; I
realized it’s best not to spring this kind of stuff on the family until you’ve
got a solid plan—and my plan depends on Drew and a little (ok, maybe medium
sized) diamond.
I
take my place behind the podium and look around the restaurant. Though I hate
to admit it, I’ll miss this a little. I still remember the exact day, four
years ago, when I stepped foot in the place for the first time. It was a total
nightmare. The previous owners were gothic/animal print enthusiasts (I have no
idea how that combination came about), and the place was clad in dark velvet
drapery and a leopard print carpet. Honestly, it looked more like a seedy
lounge than a restaurant. Lorenzo and my parents had already bought the place,
and I remember thinking that it needed a special touch. That’s where I came in
and suggested the Tuscan theme, which we have now. I basically hand selected
these burnt ochre walls and stone archways. My mom chose the terracotta tiles
that line the floors and hired a painter for the mural of the Tuscan hillside
covering the back wall. Yes, it’s a tad
stereotypical, but people seem to love it.
And
for the most part we’re lucky because in the four years we’ve been in business
we’ve acquired so many regular customers. On any given night I’ll know about
ninety percent of the people who walk in the door, which can be a good and a
bad thing.
For
example, tonight I’ve already been asked three times
about Drew. Two older women glared at my bare left hand asking me about
marriage. I mean, honestly, why are people so nosey? We’ve only been dating for
three years and we’re taking our time. Besides, we’re both so busy that we
hardly have time to think of
marriage, let alone get engaged.
Drew
is on his way down from New York right now, and who knows what might happen
tonight.
I’ve
got a good feeling about tonight.
Actually,
I’ve had a good feeling all day. And just in case something does happen tonight, I’ve dressed accordingly. I’m wearing a
very classic canary yellow dress with a full skirt and modest neckline.
Generally I don’t wear such pale colors to work because I’ll inevitably spill
something on myself in the midst of the rush, but this is a Marc Jacobs dress
and I’ve always imagined that I’d be wearing Marc when Drew…
Oh
never mind. I don’t want to jinx anything.
Anyway,
tonight, Frankie the bus boy has been on his A game, so I haven’t had to clear
one plate off a table, which means I look as fresh as when I walked in here at
three this afternoon.
The
phone rings, bringing me back to reality.
“Lorenzo’s
how may I help you?”
“Stell,
it’s me,” says my best friend Lucy. Lucy is a teacher at St. Ignatius with my
oldest brother Dante. She’s been working
with us since day one and has become like the sister I never had. My mother
wants her in the family and has been trying to set her up with Dante for the
past four years. She’s not biting though, which is fine by me.
“Hey
Luce, what’s going on?”
“There’s
a major accident on the expressway,” she sounds frazzled. “I’ve been in stopped
traffic for three hours now.”
My
heart begins to race. Drew could be in that accident. Images of Drew crunched
up in his black BMW fill my head. “Lucy, Drew isn’t here yet, I gotta go.” I
hang up without waiting for a reply.
Oh
God. Oh God. Oh God.
I patter through the kitchen and into the office where I’ve left my cell phone
plugged into the wall. I grab it. Two missed calls from Drew. My mind reels. He could be in a hospital
somewhere.
The
phone rings two times before he picks it up. “Drew,” I yell. “Are you okay?”
“Hey,”
he whispers. “Did you get my message?”
“Where
are you?”
“In
the office, there’s a big project at work and I need to be here. I left you a
message.”
“Oh,”
I say a bit relieved. Then it hits me. He’s not coming down. Tonight’s not the night. “I left my phone in the office.”
“Sorry.
Listen I have to run,” Drew says in a hushed tone. I imagine that he’s in the
middle of an important meeting and his boss is standing over him so I resist
the urge to make him feel worse. When he took the job at Connective Global
Marketing, I knew it would be hard for us, especially in the summers. Still,
sometimes I can’t help but wish he’d make more time for me. But that’s Drew;
he’s dedicated, hard working, and honest. How can I be mad?
“It’s
fine. I’ll be up on Monday. I have to go too; we have 9:00 reservations coming
in.”
“Ok,”
he says.
“I
love you,” I add, just to let him know that he’s not in the dog house.
Silence.
He
must not have heard me. “I love you,” I repeat.
“Ditto,”
he replies and hangs up.
I shoot Luce a text asking her to pick up a
bottle of wine, then exit the office, and walk through the kitchen to the front
of the restaurant. As I approach the door to the dining room it swings open at
full force. Frankie runs through carrying an armful of dirty dishes. I try to
get out of his way but we collide and some melted ice cream lands directly on
my chest. Lorenzo and Chuck laugh as my face gets red.
“Watch
where the hell you’re going,” Lorenzo yells.
“Sorry,”
Frankie says, setting the plates on a workstation and pulling a napkin out of
his back pocket. I grab it out of his hand and rush through the kitchen into
the bathroom to wash off my dress.
I do
my best to scrub the stain out of my yellow dress but in the process it becomes
completely see through. Cream-colored-lace-bra see through, and there’s no way I can walk around the restaurant like this.
I quickly tie a clean napkin around my neck
like a bib and twist it to the side. It doesn’t look that bad. It’s sort of fashionable, in a very Parisian
way. Not that I’ve been to Paris. But you know what I’m talking about.
Just to add to the effect, I undo my loose bun
and let my long brown hair fall over my shoulders. I just got layers cut into
it, so it cascades nicely down my back. I can pull this off. No problem. After
all, confidence is the key to success.
At
least, that’s what it said in Restaurant Management for
Dummies.
I
mean, I think that’s what it said. I didn’t
actually read the entire book (as I mentioned
earlier, this is not my life’s ambition, so why waste the energy). But I did
sit in the bookstore and flip through it one day.
Regardless,
it seems like good advice.
Back
at the hostess stand there’s a line at the door. I look at the clock on the
phone. 8:51 p.m. People are so punctual when it comes to eating, like they’re
afraid if they show up at 9:01, all the food will be gone.
Luckily,
we keep a stocked fridge.
“Hello,” I greet the first couple in line with
a smile. I grab two menus and seat them at a table in the back corner.
As I
walk back towards the hostess stand I touch my hand to my dress. Still damp. I
adjust the napkin.
I
look towards the next group and notice Trisha Motley standing with her friends.
I’d roll my eyes but she’d see me. Trisha and I used to run in the same circle
down the shore, but to be honest, we never really liked
each other. Of course, we pretend to.
“Trisha!”
I squeal. “It’s so good to see you. You look amazing,” and really, she does. God, she must have grown
since last summer. I don’t remember her being so tall. Or so thin. She probably doesn’t use Food Therapy, or eat for that matter.
Already
bronzed for the summer, Trisha is wearing a light green off the shoulder
mini-dress and four inch heels. She towers over my petite frame and bends to
give me a hug while her equally tall Amazonian supermodel friends watch.
“Stella,
how was your winter?” she asks. I can only imagine her winter jet-setting to
exotic places while I was stuck working lunches at my parents’ restaurant. I
need to think of something good.
I
can tell her I traveled to India and worked with impoverished children.
Only
that’s not as glamorous as say, spending the winter in Buenos Aires. That’s it.
Perfect.
She’s
looking at me strangely, as if waiting for an answer.
“Oh,
it was great, I spent so much time in New York,” I mutter. Shit. I meant Buenos
Aires.
“I love the city.” She pauses to look at her friends. “I just
moved up there for my job.”
“Nice,”
I say politely, though I could care less what fabulous job her daddy got her.
“Are you still dating Drew?” she asks suddenly
and I feel my face get hot. I know that at twenty-seven I should be more secure
and not let petty things like that bother me but I can’t help it. Trisha and
Drew went to this uber-exclusive private school in Philadelphia, and were prom
king and queen or something. Apparently, they were the “it” couple in high
school, and even though that was ages ago, it still makes me uncomfortable. The
fact that Trisha is the one who introduced me to Drew makes it all the worse.
“Of
course,” I snap.
“I
guess you’re just waiting for a ring then?” she asks in the bitchy-but-friendly
tone that she’s mastered. One of her friends snickers a little. I give her a tight smile. Just wait until I
get that ring, then I’ll flash it in her face.
I grab the menus and begin walking them to their table.
As I
walk back, I look around to see what people are eating. People love specials and tonight, Lorenzo made
two terrific ones: Chicken alla Patria, a chicken breast topped with fresh
tomatoes, spinach and melted mozzarella cheese, and Filet Mignon topped with a
wild blueberry sauce.
God,
the boy is talented.
Sometimes
he makes me feel inadequate. I mean, we are twins and
all. Actually, all four of my brothers are talented. Dante is an awesome
teacher, Pietro is a big lawyer in New York City, Mario is the general manager
of the restaurants, and Lorenzo is an amazing chef. Then there’s me.
***
Two hours later, as I’m counting the money in the office,
Lucy arrives, flustered.
“Five hours in traffic,” she whines in the doorway of the
office. “You almost done? I need a drink.”
“Yeah.” I divide twenties into swift piles. “How are the
waiters doing out there?”
“It looks like they finished all their side-work. They’re all
folding napkins.”
“Good. Can you tell them I’ll be out in a minute?”
“Sure,” she says, leaving the office.
I gather up each waiter’s pile of tips and write it all in my
book. I look at my phone as I walk out
into the dining room. No calls from Drew. He must still be
working. Or maybe he’s on his way down. He probably changed his mind and
decided to blow off work and surprise me. Not that he’s ever done that, but you
never know.
The waiters are all sitting in chairs, folding napkins to
restock the side stations. They look like a strange bunch of businessmen, ties
loosened or removed and crumpled into balls on the table, shirts unbuttoned and
untucked. Lucy is right in there with
them, folding napkins with precision and chatting with Dante about some school
stuff.
“Great job tonight guys,” I say. They all look up and shuffle
around for their things. I hand them each their tips and say goodbye.
“Where’s Drew?” Lucy asks when all the servers
are gone.
“He’s
not coming. Did you bring the wine?”
“That
sucks,” she says and stands. She moves over to her purse and lifts out a brown
paper bag. “I did better than wine,” she removes the bag dramatically. “I
brought Andre.”
I
laugh. Andre is the cheapest of all champagnes, good for nothing except maybe
cooking, yet the two of us love it. It’s our little secret. I stand and take
the bottle from her hands, hugging it. “The only man who never lets me down.”
“It’ll
go perfect with some chocolate.”
“I
like the way you think,” I say and move towards the dessert case. Since Drew is
not coming, I may as well scarf down an extra-large piece of Chuck’s chocolate
cake. Not that I’m heartbroken or anything.
By
the time I return, Lucy’s already put the bottle on ice and cleared away the
place settings from the table. She looks so at home in the restaurant that it’s
hard to believe that we’ve only been friends for four years. She just fits into
my family, which is not an easy feat. Plus, she’s a natural beauty, with long
lean legs and wavy chestnut hair. No wonder my mom has been trying to get her
and Dante together. I sit down next to
her and place the cake in the middle of the table.
“Why
isn’t Drew coming down?” she asks taking a fork.
“Work”
I wave it off and take a sip. The
champagne instantly makes me feel better.
She
smiles sympathetically. “It’s just temporary. Drew’s a great guy and he loves
you.”
I
take a bite of cake. She’s right. I really did luck out with Drew but sometimes
I get impatient about the whole marriage thing. “Luce, I thought tonight was
the night,” I confess.
“Don’t
worry Stell. It’s coming. I can feel it.”
I
smile but a small part of me can’t help but wonder if it is true. I stab
another forkful of cake and shove it in my mouth.
Recipe: Chocolate Cake for a Heartbreak
Yields
8 servings*
If
you’re following Food Therapy, this is the Tylenol of Cakes. It can fix just
about any ailment you might have, from a hangover to a heartbreak (which, by
the way, usually go hand in hand).
*If,
by chance you see that you’ve eaten the entire cake, don’t worry. Just don some
elastic pants and nurse yourself back to health. You can always diet tomorrow.
8 oz
semi-sweet chocolate
1 oz
unsweetened chocolate
1
3/4 sticks of butter
2
oranges (zests and juice)
1
teaspoon vanilla
5
large eggs
1
tablespoon flour
1
tablespoon dark cocoa powder
1)
Preheat oven to 375. Butter an 8”
cake pan and line with parchment paper. Butter the paper and set prepared pan
aside.
2)
Using a double boiler, melt
together chocolate, butter, orange zests, orange juice, and vanilla. Stir to
incorporate.
3)
Remove chocolate from the double
boiler and allow to cool for 5 minutes.
4)
Add eggs, one at a time, stirring
well to incorporate. Add the flour and cocoa powder and stir until dissolved.
5)
Pour batter into prepared pan. Place
pan in middle rack of the oven and bake for 20-25 minutes, until set.
6)
Removed pan from oven and allow to
cool for 15-20 minutes. Gently invert the cake onto a serving platter. Remove
parchment paper and dust with powdered sugar.
This cake will keep in an
airtight container at room temp for 5 days. It also freezes nicely.
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