Georgia's Kitchen (18 page)

“La carne di cervo, la cui consistenza richiama la pelle delle scarpe,”
Bruno read,
“le quali hanno ballato il tip-tap nella pioggia un po’ troppo a lungo.”
He threw back his head and snorted. The group tittered, and someone—it sounded like Elena—said something that elicited more tittering.

Georgia crept closer, wishing her Italian were better.

“La faraona, una proposta incerta perfino nelle mani più abili…”

It was definitely about food.

“… rassomiglia una scivolosa massa di plastilina…”

It was definitely about
her
food. She knew these words so well she’d understand them in Mandarin. He was reading the Mercedes review, aloud, to a table of her brand-new coworkers. So much for her fresh start; thanks to Bruno she was drowning in a sea of salty venison and greasy guinea hen all over again. Even for him, this was low.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “It looks like you’re all having fun.”

Vanessa turned, her face ashen. “Georgia. We didn’t hear you come in.”

“No, I didn’t think you did.”

Bruno smirked. “We’re reading a review.” He didn’t bother to close the screen.

“Really?” Georgia said. “And what review would that be?”

“Yours,” he said, snickering. “The worst review I’ve ever read.”

“At least she got reviewed,” Effie, the young guy, said.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Vanessa added. “She said the pasta was good. And the risotto.”

“Bah,” Bruno scoffed. “Since when have you known an American who can make pasta?”

“Are you serious, Chef?” asked Effie. “What about your idol, Molto Mario?”

“He has Italian blood!” Bruno yelled, snapping shut the laptop. “Mario has Italian blood. That makes him Italian!” In homage to Mario Batali, Bruno wore orange rubber clogs and shorts 24-7. It was only a matter of time before he grew out his scraggly brown hair and started dyeing it orange. The staff called him Much Bruno behind his back.

Vanessa walked next to Georgia. “I’m sorry, Georgia. Bruno told us he had something interesting to share with us. If I’d known what it was, I would have ignored him.”

“It’s not like it’s classified information,” Georgia said. “But I was hoping to leave all that behind me.”

“So leave it.” Vanessa linked her arm through Georgia’s. “Come, let’s get a
caffè
.”

“Good idea.” Georgia passed by Bruno, refusing to meet his eye. At least until Claudia returned, she’d keep her mouth shut, her head down, and cook. If she clashed with Much Bruno one more time, she might snap.

Hours later, the kitchen was a beehive of activity, with Bruno barking orders, Effie zigzagging between the fridge and his station, Tonio cursing anyone who crossed his path, and Vanessa guarding her burners like a Secret Service agent on presidential patrol. Though huge by residential standards, the kitchen was not designed for professional use, and the staff couldn’t wait to move into the restaurant, where they wouldn’t risk committing hara-kiri each time they turned around with a Santoku knife in hand. Trattoria Dia was already way behind schedule; the latest issue was the final coat of the three-coat plaster walls, which hadn’t dried properly. Even the unflappable Claudia was beginning to crack.

Georgia was making her
ragù,
her delicious
ragù,
if she did say so herself (and why not, since everyone else did), when she heard the squeak of Bruno’s clogs. He planted himself a breath’s width behind her.

“What are you making?”

“Ragù,”
she answered, the hairs on her neck standing up.

“Where’s the jar?” he chortled, his belly jiggling like a fruited Jell-O mold. “Or did you already throw away the evidence? Or maybe I should look for a can. I hear you Americans use canned
ragù.
” He made a show of searching for the can, poking around pots and pans, flipping through trays and pulling out items in the pantry, all the while providing a running commentary of his actions for the rest of the staff. Vanessa rolled her eyes.

If it had been the first or second time he’d ragged on Georgia’s cooking because she was American, she might have let it pass. But it was the fourth or fifth time, and she was fed up. While Bruno was busy tearing up the pantry, she dropped several ladles of sauce into a smaller pot, then quickly dumped in a scoop of ground cayenne, stirring until it wasn’t visible. When she bent over to smell the new sauce, the lining of her nostrils burned.

“If you’re so sure an American can’t make a
ragù,
why don’t you have a taste,” Georgia said loudly. “I even have a spoon for you.”

Bruno charged over, dismissing her spoon with a wave of his hand. “Which one?”

“Start with that one.” She pointed to the bigger pot.

He skimmed his spoon across the surface. “Urgh,” he said after swallowing. Then he dipped his spoon into the cayenne concoction, tipped back his head, and let it slide down his throat. “Fuck!” he screamed. Tears streamed down his face as he ran to the sink, spewing tomato chunks onto the floor. “Too much fucking heat!”

“There is? Sorry. You’re always telling me ‘more fire’ so I thought it’d be right up your alley.” Georgia filled a glass with water and handed it to him. “Have a drink.”

Bruno glared at her through watery eyes, but did as he was told. Vanessa and Effie laughed out loud, and even Tonio snickered. Georgia turned her back on her boss, a small smile escaping her lips. It was a petty, stupid, childish prank. But, man, it felt good.

The kitchen was blissfully empty, the only sound the gurgling of the Faema espresso machine Georgia cranked up. Yawning so hard her jaw popped, she massaged it back into place before downing her drink. Thanks to the band of randy roosters camped outside her bedroom window, she’d awoken at daybreak. After a few tosses and turns she rolled out of bed and threw on her running shoes. Her belly was looking more and more marsupial since her arrival in Italy, and she couldn’t afford to keep inhaling pasta and cheese without working out. So far, the most exercise she’d got was wrestling the top off a drum-size jar of preserved Meyer lemons. She slugged down her second espresso, cringing when she heard Bruno’s signature squeak behind her.

“
Buon giorno,
Georgia,” he said flatly, his voice lacking the melodious quality that made Italian such a feast for the ears. “Where are you going so early?” He packed the Faema with fresh grounds and fixed himself a
caffè.
Since the cayenne caper they’d stayed as far away from each other as possible, even in the kitchen, where it was as if an invisible wall kept them from locking eyes or—God forbid—bumping each other. This was their first real face-off.

“A run. Gotta get in shape.” Georgia instinctively patted her
belly. She eyeballed her boss’s paunch, which hung over the top of his pleated khaki shorts, then looked away. Pleats weren’t a good look for anyone, especially cooks with extra padding.

“We have a big day today. Don’t be late.”

“Of course, Bruno. It’s only six thirty. I’ll be back, dressed, and at your disposal in two hours.” She flashed a fake smile.

“Fine.” He slurped his coffee and a trickle ran down his chin. “Have you thought about the sig dish at all?”

“The what? Oh, yeah, the signature dish.” She nodded her head as if it had totally slipped her mind and was just coming back to her. “Not so much, actually.”

His face brightened. “Then you may as well forget it. I have three incredible dishes. All I have to do is figure out which one is best.”

She gave him a thumbs-up, not trusting what might come out of her mouth if she opened it, and jogged out the back door, carefully dodging the cocks in the yard. According to Claudia, an amazing signature dish was a prerequisite for any new restaurant hoping to make a splash in trattoria-soaked Tuscany. Tourists, especially, would travel huge distances for the ultimate carciofi judaica, risotto ai funghi, or even a stracotto di manzo, plus it gave journalists something to write about. Despite what she’d told Bruno, Georgia had given plenty of thought to Dia’s signature dish. Pretty much every minute of every hour that she wasn’t thinking about not being head chef and not being engaged, she thought about the signature dish. It’d be a coup for any of the Dia staffers to create it, but Georgia, the half-star American, needed it most. And snatching the honor away from Bruno would almost make up for being his sous-chef.

A dust cloud formed in her wake as she ran through the gate, her legs churning underneath her. In the past, she’d managed
to rise above tyrannical bosses, creepy investors, and customers who didn’t know the difference between arugula and rugelach yet still complained that the food wasn’t up to snuff. But a boss like Bruno—one who seemed hell-bent on destroying her credibility as a cook—was a new beast entirely.

Sprinting up the hill, she passed the hand-painted sign for the Etruscan tomb. The road dipped, then elbowed sharply, and she felt herself lose traction on the turn. She tried to slow down, but her feet skidded out from under her legs. Before she could catch herself, her right shoulder crashed into the dirt, followed by her head, hip, and knee. Her limbs bounced up slightly, then thudded back to the ground, her head turned awkwardly to the side. When she opened her eyes, she was staring at the bottom third of an olive grove—roots and trunks as far as she could see. In the sky above, a group of large birds circled, hoping they’d just discovered breakfast. She lay still for a moment, then stood up to assess the damage.

Her knee was mottled with dirt and shredded skin; her shoulder throbbed with each beat of her heart. After the one-two Marco/Glenn punch, plus the demotion to sous, what else was left to do but fall flat on her face? She brushed herself off and began the painful walk back to the villa, convinced that somehow Bruno was to blame.

Despite her mangled limbs, Georgia still managed to report for duty on time. No way would she let Bruno call her on tardiness. After she’d organized her
mise en place,
she started preparing branzino saltimbocca, a twist on the original veal preparation. Each slice of her knife sent shivers through her shoulder, and she waited for the four Motrins she’d swallowed to kick in.

“Are you okay?” Vanessa asked. “You look a little pale. And your cheek is swollen.”

“I’m fine. I fell running, but I’m fine.” Georgia threw a handful of kosher salt on the branzino.

“Easy on the salt, Georgia.” Bruno stood behind her, hot-breathing her neck. “It’s
salt
imbocca, the salt’s already in there.”

Georgia glared at him. Did
no one
understand aggressive salting? Between Bruno and Mercedes Sante, you’d think salt had been outlawed. She slammed down her sauté pan just as Claudia walked into the kitchen. Claudia’s mouth, which had been half open, snapped shut. She stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest, unnoticed by the dueling cooks.

“As I always say,” Bruno said, “more fire, less—”

“Bruno!” Georgia yelled. “Will you please back off? For just one second, please. I know you’re my boss, but can you let me cook in peace for one second?” She slammed the sauté pan again in case he’d missed it the first time.

“Georgia!” Claudia said sharply. “What is going on in here?”

Georgia spun around to face her boss. “Nothing. Everything is fine.” She felt her cheeks burn.

“Because in my kitchen we don’t slam pots and pans. Or knives, or feet, or doors. And we don’t yell. And this is, I trust you remember, my kitchen.”

The kitchen stopped. So infrequently did Claudia raise her voice or appear anything less than delighted with her staff that no one would have been surprised if she had fired the American on the spot.

“Do you understand me?” Claudia asked. Her eyebrows shot up almost to her hairline.

Georgia nodded. The universe had come knocking. The road rash decorating her knees and shoulder was its none-too-subtle calling card, and she had slammed the door in its face.

“Then we’re okay.” Claudia walked out of the kitchen. “Cook,” she said to the staff, twirling her hands over her head as she left.

Vanessa walked over to Georgia and squeezed her shoulder. Georgia grimaced.

“It’s all right,” Vanessa said. “She’ll get over it.”

“Not the shoulder, please.” Georgia removed Vanessa’s hand and shut her eyes. The truth was, it wasn’t all right. She’d been acting like a mini-Marco in training. Though she’d sworn she never would, she had become That Chef. Worse, she had become That Sous-Chef.

Bruno walked up next to her and cleared his throat. “Claudia knows you’re a good cook.”

“I guess so.” Georgia took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a second, dreading what she had to say. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk. I—” She stopped, hoping he’d let her off the hook.

“You what?” No such luck.

“I’m used to being head chef. And I, for some reason, thought I was going to be head chef at Dia. And then I found out I wasn’t, that you were. And I didn’t handle it at all well, maybe because I was fired from my last job, or maybe because I’m used to being head chef, or maybe because you weren’t all that nice to me.” She held up her hand to stop herself. “Which is no excuse. Either way, Bruno, or, I guess, any way you look at it, I behaved badly. And I’m sorry.”

Bruno nodded his head slowly. “Okay. I accept your apology. And I owe you one too. I’m sorry for all I said about you not being able to cook Italian food. You cook it quite well… for an American.” He paused for a second. “I’m joking.”

“I got that.”

“Don’t forget that this restaurant is important to both of us. We all need it to succeed, but maybe you and me a little bit more than everyone else.”

“I know. I lost track of that for a while, but I won’t again.” It was true. If Dia was a success, it would make waves that would
cross the Atlantic and reverberate all the way from Brooklyn to the Bronx. New Yorkers loved nothing more than a big, crashing fall from grace and a subsequent redemption. Dia would redeem her career.
Could
redeem her career. But only if she let it.

“We need to make some changes,” Bruno continued. “We have to get along. We don’t have to be best friends, but we have to get along.”