by Jenny Nelson
Claudia took a step back and gave her apprentice the once-over. “So, you got a bad review. It’s not the end of the world. You Americans care too much about reviews. I read it myself online. It was almost too bad.” She smiled again. “But you’re here now, so no matter.”
“Yes. Here I am.”
“And the boy? The fiancé?” Claudia picked up Georgia’s bare left hand. “No ring?”
“No ring, no fiancé.” Despite the touchy subject, Georgia beamed. Between the spellbinding scenery, the smells wafting through the kitchen, and Claudia’s infectious enthusiasm, Georgia’s perma-grin was starting to return. “What are you cooking? It smells amazing.”
“Cinghiale with red wine and olives.” Claudia studied Georgia’s face. “No ring, no fiancé, and the biggest smile I’ve seen all day.” She nodded her approval. “We’ll eat later. Now, let me show you the room.”
Georgia followed Claudia across the kitchen and up the back staircase to a pretty room with whitewashed beams, a dresser, a bed, and a writing table. The small bathroom had a shower stall and a window that overlooked the vineyard next door.
“It’s perfect,” Georgia said.
She heard sniffing outside the door, and a wiry, gray-haired dog butted its head into the room. A dog. Claudia had a dog!
“My son, Chien,” Claudia said, scratching him between his ears. “He’s very friendly. You’re not afraid of dogs, are you?”
“Oh, no. I love dogs.” Georgia stooped down to Chien’s level. She’d been missing Sally since the minute she climbed aboard the plane. “Come here, Chien. I guess he doesn’t speak English?”
“Not yet. But he’s got the rest of the spring and the whole summer to learn.” Claudia walked out the door, Chien at her heels. “I’ll leave you to settle in. Come down when you’re ready and we’ll eat.”
Georgia sprawled across the bed, placing her head on the lone lumpy pillow. The whole summer in San Casciano—she liked the way that sounded. And though she had no idea what would happen when she returned to New York, for once not having a plan didn’t bother her. All that mattered was that she was in glorious, glorious San Casciano, and her new home came with a dog.
A bowl of frothy cappuccino steamed on the table. For the third time Georgia tried to slug a sip to placate her caffeine-starved brain; for the third time she couldn’t lift the bowl without scorching her finger pads. Despite polishing off two helpings of cinghiale, a mound of polenta, and plenty of spinaci saltati at last night’s dinner, she was starving. After her feast, she’d tossed and turned in her lumpy bed, envisioning Sally snuggled up next to Glenn in his cousin’s bachelor pad, the two of them happily snoring. The made-up scene made her bluesy, and she tossed and turned some more before vowing not to think about Glenn in exchange for a few hours of sleep. Somehow, the trade-off had worked and she drifted into fitful slumber.
She eyed the five other people in the kitchen with her, feeling like a contestant on a culinary reality show. Of the five, the only face she recognized was Bruno’s. He sat at the head of the table, his arms crossed, a snub-nosed girl with a Clara Bow mouth on his right. Seated on his left, Georgia had the misfortune of being eye level with an oozing pimple buried in his scraggly sideburn. At the stove, a girl in a plain white oxford and Bermuda shorts cooked the eggs Claudia had promised the group before sweeping out of the kitchen, her black tunic rippling behind her. The girl hummed something that sounded like the Cars’ “Just What I Needed,” occasionally blotting her shiny forehead with a dish towel.
The decaffeinated group sat in silence. Several champagne flutes sparkled in the center of the table, next to a basket filled with silverware and linen napkins. Georgia took one of each, arranging them around her coffee bowl. This kickoff breakfast, as Claudia called it, was a mandatory meeting for the core kitchen staff, who were not only colleagues but housemates. Through the high season most of them would bunk at the villa, which was large enough to accommodate them all in varying levels of comfort. Earlier that morning, Claudia had knocked on their doors, telling them to report downstairs by seven. It felt a little like restaurant boot camp but was no worse than being reprimanded about working out at a Marco staff meeting.
After several minutes, the girl turned off the burners and set down a plate of fluffy eggs, finishing them off with a healthy shaving of black truffles. Next, she placed a platter of buttered toast and another of meats and cheeses on the table, her brown braid swinging across her back. She smiled at Georgia, revealing two dime-size dimples. Taking this as an invitation to dig in, Georgia smiled back, then scooped up some eggs and speared a few slices of bresaola and prosciutto. A couple bites and one scalding sip of cappuccino later, she felt enough herself to chat up the guy next to her.
“Hi, I’m Georgia. What’s your name?”
“Tonio. You’re the American.” His rusty hair stood in spikes and splotchy orange freckles covered his arms.
“Is it that obvious?” Georgia said, then drank her coffee, which had finally cooled. “Then I guess that makes you the Italian?”
“We are all Italian,” he said, stone-faced. “Except you.”
“Right.” Georgia looked at his eyes. His translucent lashes could use a tint job.
The girl with the braid took the empty seat across from Georgia. “Hi, my name is Vanessa. You must be Georgia?”
“Yes. The lone non-Italian, as Tonio just pointed out.”
“Don’t mind him. He’s just grumpy.” She bent across the table and lowered her voice. “Almost as bad as the boss.”
“Claudia? She doesn’t seem—”
“Buon giorno, everybody!” Claudia strode into the room, an ear-to-ear grin lighting her face. “Welcome to Collina Verde and, more importantly, to the future home of Trattoria Dia.”
There was a smattering of applause, and even Bruno smiled.
“I have handpicked this team of chefs from my own restaurants in Florence, as well as the top tables in Rome, Bologna, Milan, and”—Claudia turned to Georgia—“even New York City. I expect us all to work together, as a team, to create what will soon be known as the best trattoria in all of Tuscany.” She popped open a bottle of Pol Roger and began filling everyone’s glass. When she reached Tonio, she popped a second bottle. “I know it’s early for champagne, but this morning we are celebrating.”
As the group sipped from their flutes, Georgia wondered how anyone could say Claudia was grumpy. Like any successful restaurateur, she obviously demanded hard work and dedication, but grumpy? No way. With her easy smile and twinkling eyes, she was like a younger, hipper version of Mrs. Claus.
“And now,” Claudia said, “I’d like to introduce the talented team that will build Trattoria Dia.”
Georgia bowed her head slightly, trying to calm the flutters in her belly. There was no telling how the staff felt about having an American boss, but she’d soon find out.
“Our head chef,” Claudia said, “needs no introduction. My former sous-chef at La Farfalla, Bruno Valchese has proven himself to be hardworking, talented…”
Blood pounded through Georgia’s veins. Her face, then her neck and chest, grew hot and prickly, as if she’d buffed her skin with a Brillo pad soaked in rubbing alcohol. Bruno was head chef? Bruno? Hadn’t Claudia said there was a spot for Georgia on the team? She closed her eyes and tried to string together the e-mail Claudia had sent. She must have read it a dozen times, and there’d never been a doubt in her mind that Claudia wanted her as head chef. Of course she wanted Georgia to be head chef—what else could she possibly be?
“… all the way from New York City, our sous-chef, Georgia Gray, a former apprentice of mine and an incredibly skilled chef.”
There was her answer. Sous-chef. Georgia somehow managed not to cry and not to throw up. She raised her glass and offered a slight nod, her lips squeezed together to suppress the scream shooting up her larynx. Replacing her glass on the table, she clenched her hands together until her fingertips turned red with blood, the words sous, chef
, and Georgia bouncing across her brain. She was Bruno’s fucking sous-chef.
Claudia worked her way around the table, introducing Tonio and Vanessa, grill and sauté respectively; Effie, a beanpole of a guy with bad skin and a teen ’stache, who was garde-manger; and finally, Elena, the diminutive girl sitting next to Bruno, who was the general manager. The rest of the staff would start closer to open. That the Mary Lou Retton–size GM could control a dining room and a kitchen seemed questionable, though sleeping with the head chef probably helped. Their smug smiles, mirrored body language, and not-so-veiled glances were proof enough that Elena and Bruno were involved in way more than a working relationship. The whole situation made Georgia jones for Bernard’s red clipboard and verging-on-insufferable competence. Until she thought about the sleazy boss who came with him.
The champagne idled on the sideboard behind Vanessa, and Georgia was tempted to commandeer it for her personal consumption. But sauced was not the way to begin her career as an Italian sous-chef. For a split second she considered going back to New York, but quickly vetoed the idea. Jobless, penniless, and loveless in sweaty, sticky New York was no way to rebound. She joined in for the team toast to “the success of Trattoria Dia!” mentally counting the days until her time in San Casciano was done, careful not to empty her glass with one very large sip.
Bruno was killing her. It was day five of Georgia’s life as a sous-chef, and her boss was driving her crazy. Everything about him irritated her: the beady eyes that tracked her every move, the hangnailed thumb he stuck into her sauces, the gurgly throat-clearing that followed his commands (“More fire, less salt!” was his favorite anti-Georgia admonition). Clearly, he felt the same way about her. Wrinkling his nose as if he’d just lost a sneeze, he tasted whatever she made, grunting if he didn’t hate it, and fake-retching if he did. Then he’d remind her, as if he hadn’t a thousand other times, that the only people who could cook Italian food were, naturally, Italians. Except him. His food was reliable, consistent, sometimes very good. But it lacked the flashes of brilliance she expected from the head chef at a Claudia Cavalli restaurant. That he was her boss and not the other way around was eating her up.
So with heavy head and heavier feet she walked into the kitchen that morning, once again the last to arrive. Bruno sat at the table with a laptop propped open in front of him, reading from the screen. The staff huddled around him, their heads cocked to better hear what he said. No one noticed when Georgia slipped in.
“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.
&nb
sp; 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.
