Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance (21 page)

Mae looked up from her capers and said, “Did I miss something?”

“Since Sonya won’t be around, we’re going to have to decide what he should wear for the three spots.” I crossed my arms over my chest, grinned, and said to him, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He grinned right back at me, took off the apron, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Not here. Around the corner.” I picked up his hangers and led him out the door and around the corner to a small alcove at the right of the kitchen door. It was secluded enough for a quick change, and we all used it in a pinch. Otherwise, he would have to use the bathrooms, which are upstairs, or change in the kitchen. A few years ago, we had a chef change in the kitchen. He was so proud of his upper body that he kept his shirt off longer than necessary, and it was extremely distracting. I wasn’t sure how distracting a bare-chested Danny would be to me, but I wasn’t willing to take any chances.

I hung the shirts on some wiring hanging from the wall and started to walk back to the kitchen.

“You leaving?”

“It’s not a two-person job. Come into the kitchen when you’ve changed.”

“Feel free to peek if you want!”

He returned shortly in the black polo shirt he had worn the first day we’d met.

“I like that for the salmon spot. The contrast will be good. What do you think, Mae?”

“Definitely.’”

“Next,” I said to him.

Danny tried on three more shirts. We decided on the faded chambray shirt for the lamb and a bright blue polo shirt that made his eyes seem even bluer for the tuna tartare with fried wontons.

“Okay, Danny, don’t put any of those three back on until shooting.”

It was great having the extra set of hands, especially his. He knew his own recipes by heart and worked through them more
quickly than either Mae or I could have. A little after seven, Jonathan arrived in a neck brace.

“Jonathan. How are you?” I said with real concern.

“Don’t ask. I’m lucky to be alive. If that brute ever comes on the show again, I am definitely quitting.”

“Did his front man see you after the show?”

“
Please!
That asshole! He tried to give me a cookbook. What nerve! I told him my lawyer doesn’t cook.”

“I’m glad you’re well enough to be here,” I said.

“I’m not well enough,” he said, touching the brace, “I’m dedicated.” He reached into his pocket for the key to his cupboard.

“What happened to you?” Danny asked.

The question was music to Jonathan’s ears. He leaned on the counter next to Danny and gave him a blow-by-blow description of his ordeal. Danny listened and commented but never stopped working. When he’d finished his medical analysis, Jonathan switched topics. “I’m
so
glad that we are going to put potatoes and vegetables on the plate with the lamb. You have no idea how difficult it is to make brown appealing. But,” he said, throwing his chin in the air, “no one listens to me.”

Even with Jonathan drawing out the details of his near-death experience and making his color point yet again, Danny’s help moved us along a lot faster than I had expected, and we finished well ahead of time. By seven forty-five we were done. I sent Danny up to makeup and returned to the buffet alone.

D
ANNY WAS AS RELAXED
with the cameras rolling as he was working in the kitchen. He trimmed the last bone on the lamb rack, explained what he was doing, smiled for the cameras, and charmed the pants off Karen all at the same time. Still smiling and explaining what he was doing, he put the lamb in
a hot skillet—we could hear the sizzle—chopped some shallots, turned the lamb, and chopped mushrooms. He transferred the lamb to the oven, drained the excess fat from the pan, added a few tablespoons of butter, and then tossed in the shallots and mushrooms. A little salt, pepper, and an explanation that it should cook until the mushrooms released their liquid, and then he switched to the pan that held the already cooked shallots and mushrooms and added some stock. When he poured the Madeira into the pan, he put his arm across Karen’s chest, said, “Step back, love,” and tilted the pan so that the Madeira exploded in a burst of flames. It was a great piece of food television and totally ad-libbed. He removed an already cooked rack of lamb from the oven, sliced one rib chop from it, put it on a plate that already held cooked asparagus and mashed potatoes, and napped it with the Madeira sauce. A star is born! Danny sailed through his two taped spots with equal ease, in one take.

Sonya came into the kitchen to congratulate him. “You’re a natural, Danny.” She beamed. “That was terrific. And, all of you, the food looked fabulous. Thank you.” She turned back to Danny. “I’d love to have you back sometime.”

“Brilliant. I’d love to do it again.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Sonya said as she left.

We all went on about him in the kitchen until I had to leave. I still had so much to do before I was ready to leave for Italy tomorrow. “I’ll walk out with you,” Danny said.

Out on the street, he said, “I was wondering. Are you expecting a long mourning period?”

“Mourning period?”

“You know, from your breakup.”

“I’m not mourning. That’s not why I don’t want to go out with you.”

“Oh,” he said. “Because I was going to tell you that the accepted wisdom is that you’re supposed to get right back on the horse when you’re thrown.”

“Danny, when I get back on the horse, it can’t be a wild one. It’s not what I want.”

“I’m not that wild, Casey. I can get you good letters of recommendations from old girlfriends, if you like.”

“Is it a very large stack? I don’t have much free time to read.”

Before he could answer, a car pulled up and Kim the greeter rolled down her window and chirped, “Sorry, Danny. The traffic was horrifying. Am I very late?”

“Your timing is perfect,” I said and walked away.

On the road again.
—
Willie Nelson

T
hursday evening, I met Sonya at JFK for our flight to Milan. If Sally had been with us, there would have been a strong possibility of being upgraded to first class, but she had left for London on Saturday, so I resigned myself to coach. I had packed little sandwiches of brown bread and tequila-cured salmon, and when the drink cart stopped at our seats, we each ordered some white wine and unwrapped the sandwiches.

“Where are we meeting Sally?” I asked between mouthfuls.

“In Parma. Tomorrow.” Sonya reached for another sandwich.

I hated to risk acid reflux, but I had to ask. “And George?”

“I don’t know. When he called to say he would be in Italy, he asked me to fax him our itinerary but didn’t say when he was coming. I asked Sally but she didn’t know, either.”

“Wouldn’t it be cool if he didn’t show at all?”

“A blessing.” She pulled an apple and a pear out of her carry-on and gave me a choice. The pear looked deliciously ripe and I took it.

I bit into the pear and put my head back for a moment, overwhelmed with thoughts of all that Sally had going on. It seemed that she would soon be dealing with a new publisher and, God forbid, maybe a new television network. She was giving up her London flat, which had been such a part of her life with Peter. That was another thing—Peter. She’d learned something about him that hurt. And worst of all, it seemed to me, was having to deal with George. I knew she thought she could tough it all out, but I wasn’t so sure.

“Do you think having George around will affect Sally’s performance?” I asked.

“I thought about that, but I’ve seen Sally go through some tough times and never show it on camera. She’s such a professional. I’m betting that she’ll be okay. He’ll just ruin life for the rest of us.”

Ain’t that the truth?

W
E LANDED IN
M
ILAN
early in the morning, and after
grazie
-ing and
prego
-ing our way through customs we met Giuseppe, who was waiting for us with a sign that said
BUON GIORNO
IN AMERICA
. Giuseppe would be our driver for the entire trip. He was a man in his sixties, perfectly groomed and wearing a tweed jacket, pale yellow sweater vest, and a necktie. He was courteous and protective and immediately took us under his Harris tweed wing.

He packed our luggage and our jet-lagged bodies into his impeccably clean Mercedes-Benz and headed for the
autostrada
. “Ah, la Parma,” he said. “He is the queen of cities. City of art, of music, food—
incredibile
, the food.” It turned out that Giuseppe was from Parma and, like most Italians, suffered from a chronic case of c
ampanilismo
, extreme partiality to one’s own city.

About three hours later, we arrived at the Palace Maria Luigia, in the center of Parma, and while Sonya was checking us in, I called Sally from the house phone.

“Hi, there,” I said when she picked up.

“Is that Signorina Casey Costello?”

“
Sì, Signora Woods. Come stai?
”

“Wait a minute. I have to look that up.” I could hear pages turning. “
Molte bene. Grazie
.”

“
Brava
. What are you up to?”

“Just going over the scripts. Why don’t you and Sonya come up to my room?”

“Perfect! We’ll drop our bags and be right there.”

“
Arrivederci
,” she said.

“
Ciao
.”

“That’s right.
Ciao
.”

Sally had a knockout penthouse room with huge windows that framed the city center. The three of us stood looking out and I was totally blown away by the reality that here I was in Italy, with my people. I was feeling really connected and wished that my mother and Nonna could have been here with me.

None of us had eaten lunch, so we found a nearby trattoria where the menu was only in Italian, a good sign. Just about every item listed was a specialty of the area. We knew this because the name of the dish was followed by the words
di Parma
. That meant that it contained either Parmesan cheese or Parma ham or, if you were lucky, both. Sonya ordered
tortelli d’erbetta di Parma
, a kind of elongated ravioli filled with cooked beet greens, ricotta, and Parmesan cheeses and served swimming in butter and more Parmesan. Sally and I ordered
tagliatelle di Parma
, thin ribbons of egg pasta with a sauce of butter, Parma ham, a little tomato, and lots of cream and
Parmesan cheese. It doesn’t get much better. For our second course, we each ordered
rollatini di vitello di Parma
, thin slices of veal rolled around Parma ham and Parmesan cheese and braised in Marsala.

We spent the next two hours eating our food di Parma, sipping local wine, and practicing our limited Italian on the waiters. Sonya knew only “good day,” “please,” “thank you,” and “where’s the WC?” but Sally had been studying and knew a lot of useful phrases, such as
una bottiglia di vino rosso, subito
, and
il conto, per favore
. I could understand most of what was said to me and with enough red wine was able to respond to anything. Sally and Sonya said I sounded just like a native. It’s in the genes.

Sally never mentioned London, and neither did we. It didn’t seem like a happy subject. After dessert and espresso, Sonya paid
il conto
, courtesy of the network, and we walked back to the hotel through the Parco Ducale. We were immediately blown away by the expanse of green right in the center of the city. That was probably the way tourists felt about New York’s Central Park.

“Look at the size of those trees,” Sally said.

“Many of them were actually planted in the fifteen hundreds, when the ruling Farnese family established it as a park,” Sonya explained. “Then, in the mid–seventeen hundreds, a Frenchman named Petitot redesigned the gardens for the French Bourbon rulers of Parma. That’s why they’re in the French style.” Sonya knew these things because she’d had to research as much as possible about each city we’d visit in order to decide what she wanted for B-roll. B-roll consists of hours of tape a cameraman records around the city without the talent; an editor then cuts it down into seconds of footage. The edited tape is used to introduce a scene, establish the location, and provide
atmosphere. Sally will provide the voice-over that tells the audience what they are seeing.

“Well, they are perfectly lovely,” Sally said. “And I love seeing all these Italian women walking arm in arm. It just seems like the right thing to do with friends.” She linked her arms in ours. “You know any Italian songs, Casey?”

“Is the pope Catholic?” I asked, and I taught them “Funicoli, Funicola,” which Nonna had taught us as kids. I don’t think I had the words quite right, but who would know? One meal in Italy and we were already feeling totally Italian. Tomorrow, I’d have to teach them the tarantella. We were a giddy, jolly threesome when we arrived back at the hotel. We made plans to meet for dinner and then crashed for a siesta. What a country!

I
N SPITE OF THE
fact that my body was still on New York middle-of-the-night time, I was wide awake and psyched to get going when Giuseppe picked us up at seven the next morning. Our routine in each of the cities would be the same. Mornings, Sonya, Sally, the director, and the camera crew would go out in the field to tape Sally at a place of culinary interest. I would go to the restaurant to work with the talent and get things prepped for the afternoon cooking shoot. I realized that this schedule gave me very little time alone with Sally, and I wanted so much to talk to her about the land mines she was trying to avoid. Then again, maybe it was best to skirt them altogether while we were in Italy.

Giuseppe dropped me off first and then drove Sally and Sonya to meet the crew on location. Among other culinary marvels, they were going to tape Sally stirring curds and whey with a parmigiano-reggiano cheesemaker and then patting the little pigs that ate the whey and wound up as Parma hams.

My stop was a restaurant located in a converted farmhouse, but one that must have been occupied by a rich
padrone
and not the likes of my farmer ancestors, who, according to Nonna, had been lucky to have a mud floor under their feet. It was a two-story stone farmhouse with a terra-cotta roof and a thick, ancient front door, to which was taped a sign that said
APERTO OGGI PER TV AMERICANO
. The restaurant was a family-run business with the seventy-five-year-old
nonna
, the talent, at the helm. Anna Maria reminded me of my own Nonna. She was short, round, and grandmotherly. I guessed that she had been to the beauty parlor that morning, because each strand of her gray hair was twisted into a perfect curl and I could smell hair-spray; her fingernails were newly painted a bright pink. Her pale pink housedress was starched and ironed. I
loved
her. She was going to demonstrate
tagliatelle di Parma
, the same dish Sally and I had drooled over at lunch yesterday.