Georgia’s Kitchen

by Jenny Nelson

  “And so are you.” He leaned over and kissed her lips.

  She smiled. Cheesy lines rolled off his tongue so effortlessly they were actually somewhat charming. With anyone else, she wouldn’t be so charitable.

  Gianni plucked a grape from a vine and crushed it between his thumb and forefinger. “See this?” He showed her the smashed flesh. “It’s Nerello Mascalese, native to Etna. It’s almost ready to be picked. La vendemmia will begin soon.”

  The Italian wine harvest kicked off in Sicily, then continued up the boot, hitting Puglia, Campania, and Tuscany, among other regions, not stopping until it passed through Veneto, Piedmont, and Trentino–Alto Adige, Italy’s northernmost wine-producing province. Celebrations honoring the mighty grape abounded during the harvest, and it was nearly impossible not to run across a festival somewhere.

  “Next year, we’ll come here for la vendemmia. After the first day of picking, everyone goes back to the cantina and we eat a huge feast and have a great party. The real work doesn’t begin until the next day… when we’re back at the Lazzaro.” He sucked the grape into his mouth and licked the juice from his fingers. “What do you think?”

  An image of Lucille Ball, barefoot and stomping grapes at an Italian vineyard, popped into Georgia’s head. Grammy had adored I Love Lucy, and Georgia remembered watching that hilarious episode in Grammy’s den. She laughed out loud.

  “Can I take that as a yes?”

  “I was just remembering a funny TV show I used to watch with my grandmother.”

  He studied her for a moment, looking peeved with her non-answer before offering his hand. “Come, let’s go have a drink.”

  They walked toward the main house, crunching over dirt so rocky and dry it was a wonder anything grew there at all. The rose-hued villa was designed in the baroque style, complete with Juliet balconies, arched windows, and heavy wooden doors. A double staircase, perfect for making dramatic exits, led to a terrace overlooking the vineyard.

  They followed a winding path to a patio nestled against the side of the house. A pergola blanketed with violet bougainvillea ran overhead, and a couple of café tables and chairs offered respite from the sun. A wet bar with a fridge and small cooktop was tucked into the corner next to an arched door.

  “My friend Ilario said to make ourselves comfortable.” Gianni opened the fridge and pulled out bottles of sparkling water and white wine. “It’s too hot for red, so let’s have a glass of this.” He looked at the bottle and frowned. “Not my favorite, but don’t tell Ilario.”

  While he poured the wine, Georgia poked around the fridge, finding a wedge of pecorino siciliano, a package of crackers, and a jar of fat, green olives, an impromptu antipasto plate. She arranged the food on a cutting board sitting next to the sink and set it on the table.

  “A toast,” Gianni said, holding up his glass. “To you.”

  “And to you. I can’t thank you enough for bringing me here. I’ve seen so much of Sicily I feel like I’ve been here for three nights instead of one. I just wish we didn’t have to leave tomorrow.”

  “You’ll be back, Georgia. As soon as you finish up at Dia, you’ll be back at the Lazzaro.” There wasn’t a trace of doubt in his voice.

  She cut a piece of cheese and put it on a cracker, which was cold from the fridge. “I don’t know, Gianni. I’ve been doing some thinking—”

  “Don’t.” He leaned across the table and rested his finger on her lips. “Don’t say anything now unless it is yes. Otherwise, don’t think about anything until we’re back in San Casciano. We have this whole place to ourselves tonight. Let’s make the most of it.”

  He was right. There’d be plenty of time to think about things the next day, or the next, or even the next. It was her last night in Sicily and she was with an amazing guy in a magical place and she wasn’t about to screw it up by thinking. “Okay.”

  “Now,” he said, rising from the table, “would you like to see the tasting room?”

  “I would love to see the tasting room.” She took his hand and they walked into the house.

  The last of Dia’s customers were still straggling out of the restaurant when Georgia and Gianni pulled up to the villa sometime after midnight. After a whirlwind weekend and a full day of traveling, the only thing Georgia wanted to do was crawl into bed and stay there for a week—and if Gianni wanted to join her, all the better. But since he was jetting off to spend the rest of Ferragosto with his family in Puglia, and her presence was required at the Dia kitchen first thing in the morning, the most she could hope for was a solid six hours… alone.

  “So when do you get back?” Georgia asked.

  “In a week.” He ran the back of his hand down her cheek. “I wish you could come with me.”

  “Bruno would kill me. And if he didn’t, Effie would. But it does sound nice.”

  “As nice as moving to Taormina?”

  “Gianni,” she began, but he rested his finger on her lips to stop her.

  “When I get back,” he said.

  She nodded. “Thank you for a wonderful weekend.”

  “Thank you for being a wonderful woman.”

  They kissed good-bye, and she grabbed her tote bag from the backseat and walked into the villa.

  Chien wiggled his rump in greeting as Georgia entered the Dia dining room, and she knelt down to give him a scratch. As the de facto mascot, Chien roamed the restaurant premises like a king patrolling his castle. In New York, a dog in the kitchen was a surefire route to a nasty health-code violation and a guaranteed shutdown. In San Casciano, the health inspector handed Chien scraps of his veal chop under the table while polishing off his third glass of Barolo, compliments of the house.

  Bursts of laughter sounded from the kitchen, which could only mean that Claudia was back. Like every other Italian, she celebrated Ferragosto by going on holiday, though hers had been shorter than the typical two weeks. She’d left Bruno in charge, which had been fine with Georgia.

  She walked into the kitchen, where Bruno, Tonio, and a bunch of the newer staff members were huddled around Claudia, who read aloud from a magazine splayed on the kitchen table. She said something Georgia couldn’t decipher, and the group responded with a smattering of applause.

  “Hi, Claudia!” Georgia called.

  Claudia looked up and grinned. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. In the last few days she’d sprouted a minibump, and it protruded slightly from underneath her swingy black shirt. “Georgia!” she said. “Come listen to this.”

  “What is it?” Georgia asked, Chien at her heels. After Claudia, Georgia was his favorite person. And with Sally an ocean away, he offered the doggy love she craved.

  “Taste magazine,” she said happily. “The story’s running in the current issue. They sent us these.” She pointed to a stack of magazines in front of the fridge.

  Georgia picked one up and began flipping through it. “Page?”

  “One hundred eleven,” Bruno answered. “But check the cover first.”

  She closed the magazine and held it at arm’s length. A collage of images from Tuscany and beyond graced the cover of the all-Italian issue. In the top left quadrant a pine farmhouse table was laid out with a single place setting and a smorgasbord of Dia’s best (and most photogenic) dishes. “The Little Trattoria That Could,” read the cover line.

  “Wow,” Georgia said. A lovely plate of sole e luna, which didn’t exist when the cover was shot, had been Photoshopped into the picture and sat smack in the middle of the table. “This looks beautiful.”

  The story was reported and filed before Dia had opened its doors, so long ago that everyone had almost forgotten about it. Its publishing date was timed to coincide with Tuscany’s official high season, which had hit. San Casciano, along with every other town that boasted at least one church and one café, was abuzz with tourists. Even without a gushing Taste cover story, Dia was a tough reservation. Now, scoring a table would be like scoring tickets for the next unannounced Stones show at the Beacon
Theater.

  Georgia pored over the magazine’s slick pages, her lips moving as she read, barely breathing until she was done. Claudia was depicted as the sexy-but-saintly gourmand who was single-handedly revolutionizing Tuscan cuisine, an Italian Alice Waters with a sprinkling of Gina Lollobrigida and a dash of Mother Teresa. The recipe for sole e luna, reworked for home cooks, was featured in a sidebar under the heading “The Dish That Doesn’t Miss.” American sous-chef Georgia Gray, cocreator of Dia’s dish, merited one full sentence and one artfully blurred photo.

  Georgia giggled at the image of herself traversing the kitchen holding a platter of painstakingly arranged vegetables. At least an hour had gone into choosing those veggies and then arranging, spraying, and rearranging them in all their unblemished beauty. Aside from her hair, which the shoot stylist insisted she wear down, Georgia was virtually unrecognizable. But her friends back home would know her ’do anywhere.

  Exhaling loudly, she closed the magazine and said a silent thank-you to Ganesh. That one little sentence, along with the recipe credit, would help to erase the Marco debacle from the culinary world’s collective memory. Everyone knew a chef was only as good as her last review. Though not exactly a review, and not exactly about Georgia, it was close enough.

  “This is amazing,” Georgia said. “Really amazing.”

  “Way to go, boss,” Bruno said. Only he, Claudia, and Georgia remained in the kitchen; the others had streamed out clutching magazines, jabbering into their cell phones in rapid-fire Italian.

  “Way to go is right,” Georgia said. “Congratulations, Claudia. I can’t think of anyone who deserves this more than you.”

  “What about you two? I couldn’t have done it without you. Without any of you, but you two especially.” She took their hands in hers and squeezed.

  “I should go find Elena. She’s going to be very excited about this.” Bruno wiggled his eyebrows lasciviously. “There’s no telling what might happen.”

  Claudia laughed. “As long as you’re in the kitchen this afternoon, I don’t care what you do.” She walked over to the massive fridge and rolled open the freezer, rummaging around before selecting a nondescript white container.

  “I think I’ll look for Effie and Vanessa,” Georgia said, falling into step behind Bruno.

  “Actually, Georgia, if you don’t mind sticking around, I’d like to talk to you.” She set the container on the counter and pulled a demitasse spoon from a drawer.

  “Sure.”

  As the squeak of Bruno’s rubber clogs receded down the hallway, Claudia turned to her protégé. “Gelato? Sergio brings it to me from Vivoli. Stracciatella, my favorite. I’m afraid it’s true what they say about pregnancy and gelato.”

  “No, thanks. Maybe later.”

  Claudia held up the miniature spoon. “I fool myself into believing that if I use a small spoon, I won’t eat as much. Of course, it doesn’t work, but who am I to point that out to myself?”

  Georgia laughed.

  “So how was Sicily?”

  “Sicily was great. It’s so beautiful. The bougainvillea, the citrus trees, the ocean, that air—it’s the perfect mix of salty and sweet.”

  “And Gianni?”

  “He’s good,” Georgia said vaguely. “How was your holiday? And how’s everything with the baby?”

  “Our holiday was great. Too short, of course. And the baby is wonderful. I’m convinced it’s a girl. All my dreams are pink: pink frosting on cake, pink tulips, a pink lawn mower! We did a sonogram and saw her fingers and her toes. Sergio almost passed out.” Her shoulders shook with laughter. “Men can be such big babies.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you something, Claudia?”

  “Anything.”

  “In the beginning of the summer, you told me you didn’t need a child or a husband, that the restaurants were your babies. What made you change your mind?”

  “The restaurants are my babies. And when I didn’t think I could have one of my own, they were enough. But when I least expected it, life intervened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I gave up hope, accepted that I wasn’t meant to be a mother, really accepted it, and I moved forward with my own life.” Claudia shrugged. “At forty-two, what choice did I have? And then when I wasn’t even paying attention, somewhere between the plaster walls peeling and the HVAC system crashing, I realized I was late. Very late.”

  Georgia had heard this sometimes happened with women who’d given up on fertility drugs and resigned themselves to child-free lives. They’d stop shooting the hormones and start craving pickles and bacon and milk shakes—all at the same time.

  “I also realized how badly I wanted a baby. How happy I am to have the chance to become a mother. And how happy I am to do it with Sergio.” She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “As cooks we can always depend on our mise en place. Our mise is neat, ordered, constant. But life isn’t neat and it isn’t ordered. It moves and shifts and changes. And just when we think we have everything in its place, it moves again. Sometimes in ways we understand, sometimes in ways we don’t.” She shrugged. “But we trust anyway.”

  A chef’s mise—all the herbs, oils, fine dices, towels, and anything else she might need to cook her way through a shift in a professional kitchen—was at her fingertips, shift after shift, night after night. It was reliable, steadfast. Life, as Claudia said, was not. Just when you thought you had everything figured out, just when everything seemed to be in its place, something came along and turned it upside down and you had to start all over again. Sometimes it was unpleasant. And sometimes it was wonderful.

  “To tell you the truth,” Claudia continued, “I would be fine without getting married. But Sergio, he’s more traditional. He thinks she deserves married parents. So I’ll do it for him… and for her too. Or him—there I go again!” She wagged a finger at herself.

  The scent of lemon, fresh, clean, and faint when Georgia had first entered the kitchen, had grown stronger as they spoke, and it now filled the room. Georgia walked to the oven, flipped on the light, and peered through the glass door. A golden cake ballooned from a circle pan.

  “Delizia di Sorrento,” Claudia said. “I make it with Meyer lemons and eat it like it’s bread. Another craving.” She turned to Georgia. “Now it’s my turn to ask a question.”

  “Okay.”

  “I hear you’re considering working at the Palazzo Lazzaro with Gianni.”

  “I am, sort of, I guess. Okay, yes, I’m considering it. It’s an incredible offer. Money, prestige, a fabulous location, a not-at-all-bad-looking guy… I’d be a fool not to consider it.”

  “Sounds fantastico, Georgia. It really does. But is it what you want?” Claudia held her hand to her heart. “Is it what you want here?”

  Georgia placed her hands on the counter and stared at them; the ruddy skin, slightly crepey from constant washings, the short, unpolished nails. A faint scar snaked its way around her index finger, a souvenir from her first knife-skills class at the Culinary Institute. Working-girl hands, Glenn had called them, right before slipping that sparkling ring onto her finger. Grammy’s hands, she thought, clasping them together. She had her grandmother’s hair and her grandmother’s hands.

  “I want my own restaurant. That’s what I want.” Though Georgia had been saying these words for years, it was the first time she believed she would make it happen. The job offer at the Palazzo Lazzaro, with all its glittering accompaniments, had given her confidence the final boost it needed. If she was good enough to run Gianni’s restaurant, she was good enough to run her own. Opening her own restaurant, in her own city, was what she needed to do for herself and for her life before she could share it with anyone else.

  Claudia grabbed a pair of pot holders from a hook on the wall and slid the cake from the oven. “It almost smells better than it tastes.” She placed it on the stovetop, leaning over to inhale its aroma, a satisfied smile on her face.

  She looked up at Georgia. “You’ll have that
restaurant if you want it badly enough. You have the skills, you have the creativity, and if you really want it here”—Claudia touched her heart again—“and here”—she touched her head—“you’ll find the discipline to make it happen. It won’t be easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is. But you can make it work.”

  “I know I can. I’m not sure how, but I’ll figure it out.” Georgia walked to the cutlery drawer and pulled out a spoon. “I think I’ll have some of that gelato now.”

  Claudia handed her the container, which had been sitting out on the counter and was filled with slushy vanilla gelato laced with dark-chocolate shavings. Georgia dipped the spoon, not a demitasse, but a tablespoon, into the ice cream, a smile spreading across her face as she took her first bite. It was worth it.

  “Ciao, bella!” Wearing jeans, a checked shirt, and those black Adidas soccer shoes all the cool guys had worn in high school, Gianni strolled across the field to meet Georgia, who waited for him by the abandoned well halfway between Dia and his winery. It was the exact spot where she’d first noticed him, and like then, he had a cell phone attached to his ear. Also like then, he looked amazing.

  She wished she could say the same about herself. Patting the back of her head where her hair was gathered in a sloppy bun that felt suspiciously like a robin’s nest intertwined with cotton balls, she realized that a quick glance in the mirror before dashing out of the restaurant would have been a wise idea. But she had only a sliver of time between dinner prep and the start of her shift, and she knew if she put off saying what she had to say, she could very well end up not saying it at all. Messy hair it was.

  “Ciao, Gianni,” she said as he walked up. She went to kiss his cheek, but he turned her face to his and, cupping it in his hands, kissed her lips. Then he did it again. She kissed him back, a flicker of doubt jolting through her. Was she out of her mind? A part of her said yes, but it was the part she wasn’t supposed to listen to.

  “How was Puglia?” she asked. “And your family?”

  “It was great, but I missed you. My mama can’t wait to meet you. It’s all she talked about.” He grinned. “So, I guess you have something important to tell me.” He wiggled his eyebrows as her belly slowly sank. Despite their conversation in Sicily, he had no idea what was coming.