Georgia’s Kitchen

by Jenny Nelson

  “I do have something important to tell you. Very important.” She cleared her throat. “It’s really hard for me to say this, and I hate when people say that, but it’s true. So I’m just going to say it.”

  His grin disappeared.

  “I can’t accept the job at the Lazzaro. When I finish at Dia, I’m going back to New York to open my own restaurant.”

  Crossing his arms across his chest, he stared first at the ground, then off in the distance where a brood of hens pecked at the dirt for worms. When he finally looked at her, it wasn’t sadness or hurt or disappointment that she saw. It was anger.

  “That is a mistake, Georgia. A big mistake.”

  “I—”

  “We are offering you the opportunity of your life. You will not find a better situation ever. If you aren’t able to see that, then you don’t deserve to work at the Lazzaro.”

  “I do see that, Gianni, and I really appreciate all that you’re offering. I do. But I don’t want another job. I want my own restaurant.”

  “Your own restaurant? Why? So you can be one more chef feeding your own, big ego? Isn’t that—how do you call it—a cliché?”

  She swallowed. “I don’t think I’m a cliché. I want to do something—”

  “And what makes you think you’re qualified to run your own restaurant? Do you know how hard it is? Do you know how many fail?”

  “Of course I do, Gianni. But I believe in myself. And other people do too. People like Claudia. And people like you.” She reached out for his hand, but he snatched it away.

  “I’m not so sure I do anymore.” He stared at her for a second before pulling his shades from his chest pocket and sliding them on. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it and walked off, nearly kicking an unlucky hen who crossed his path.

  “Gianni!” she called out. “Please don’t leave like this.”

  But if he’d heard her, he pretended not to. He was already gone.

  There was no way Georgia would face her parents alone. Not ever if she could help it, and especially not that night. So she stood outside Collina Verde, squinting in the early-evening sun, waiting for Vanessa to pick her up. The trees were thinning, a chill was in the air. September had arrived, and summer’s shelf life was about to expire.

  As far back as Georgia could remember, the end of summer had filled her with dread. Not the grown-up kind that causes sleepless nights and stomachaches, but a childlike belief that nothing held by fall’s cooler, shorter days could ever eclipse the lazy thrills of summer. Grammy closed the Silver Lake cabin, Georgia returned to her parents, and the door on summer’s carefree casualness slammed shut. But the September she went off to college, a seismic shift occurred: instead of returning home, she left home, in all likelihood for good. The dread lifted like a beribboned balloon disappearing into the sky. Driving the brand-new-to-her tan Toyota Camry, a combined graduation gift from her parents and Grammy, she pulled out of the driveway and waved good-bye. That year she worshipped at the altar of autumn. Never before had the leaves beneath her feet felt so crunchy. Never had the nights felt crisper or looked more star-filled. Fall became her favorite season.

  While she waited for Vanessa, she found herself once again dreading the onset of autumn. Not because of the cooling air, or the thinning trees or the petals strewn across the ground, but because, just as it had all those years ago, it announced her parents’ reentrance into her life and with that the end of a summer adventure. That “trip to the Continent” her dad had e-mailed her about so long ago had arrived. Soon she’d be back in New York recounting her summer saga to Clem and Lo, and all of it, the restaurant, the people—Claudia, Vanessa, Effie, Bruno, Sergio, Gianni—even Gianni—would be reduced to sepia-toned memories.

  The little Peugeot pulled up and Georgia climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Ready?” Vanessa asked before rolling out.

  “Sure,” Georgia lied.

  Vanessa steered the car over ruts and rocks, loose pebbles and dirt, away from Dia and San Casciano. In Tuscany, one was never too far from an empty country road, and soon not another car was in sight. Early evening became twilight, that gray-green hour when objects are reduced to shapes, and the countryside filled with elongated triangles, rectangles, and ovals, soft and fuzzy like a pastel painting. Clutching a tissue-size scrap of paper on which she had scrawled directions, Georgia sat stiffly in the passenger seat.

  “Tell me again why we’re going to this restaurant?” Vanessa said through clenched teeth, her hands gripping the wheel. “Could your parents have picked a more out-of-the-way place?”

  “It’s close to their hotel, and the front-desk person recommended it.”

  “Are you kidding? Their daughter is a chef at the Claudia Cavalli restaurant on the cover of Taste magazine, and they rely on a bellhop for a recommendation?”

  “Desk clerk. And that’s my mother for you.” Georgia shrugged.

  “Can’t wait to meet her.” Vanessa shifted the car into neutral and grabbed the directions from Georgia’s lap. “We were supposed to go left at that fork back there. Some copilot you are.”

  “Sorry,” Georgia said absentmindedly. “I didn’t realize it was a fork. Anyway, Effie said it was a good restaurant.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Vanessa threw the car into reverse and zigzagged back to the fork. “But that’s not the point, is it?”

  At last a hand-painted wooden sign announced the restaurant. Vanessa tore down a gravelly road that morphed into a minuscule parking lot, slamming on the brakes in a spot near the entrance.

  Georgia climbed out of the car and shut the door behind her. “Wish me luck, Vee.”

  “You’re not really nervous, are you?” Vanessa whispered as they stepped carefully up the dark walkway. “They’re your parents.”

  “Easy for you to say. You don’t know my parents. Or more specifically, my mother. This will be the first time I’ve seen them since—”

  Georgia stopped midsentence, sick of sounding like a broken record when it came to her broken engagement. She’d sworn never to talk about that or her firing again, at least until she returned to native soil. Vanessa had already been schooled on steering the conversation elsewhere the moment either topic arose.

  They walked into the restaurant. With its worn honey-maple tables and chairs, floral cotton curtains, brick-red walls, and a fire burning in the stone hearth, the place oozed charm. The kitchen’s wood-burning oven infused it with an earthy smell, and the pierced-tin sconces and matching chandeliers emitted a soft glow.

  “Let’s hear it for the bellhop’s recommendation,” Vanessa said. “Smells good, looks good, even has nice lighting.”

  While they needed no help on the food front, Italian restaurateurs could stand to learn a thing or two about restaurant design from the New World, especially when it came to lighting. Fluorescent overheads frequently glared in otherwise cozy trattorias, making food look pallid and diners positively pasty.

  “Georgia!” a male voice bellowed. A bespectacled, bearded man stood up at a table in the far corner of the restaurant. “Over here, Georgia!” Hal waved his hands over his head.

  “My dad,” Georgia said to Vanessa, waving back. The girls made their way through the crowd of English-speaking diners.

  Hal edged in front of the table to greet his daughter. Wearing pleated, forest green cords, clunky leather lace-ups, and a tweed sport coat, he couldn’t have looked more professorial if he tried. He held his arms open as Georgia approached and engulfed her in a bear hug.

  “Hi, Dad.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her head in his chest. Sometimes it took someone standing right in front of you to make you realize you had missed them.

  “It’s good to see you, George.” He held her out at arm’s length. “You look wonderful. Just wonderful.”

  “Thanks.” Georgia beamed. “You do too. A little more salt in the pepper, maybe, but good.” She elbowed him in the ribs.

  “What’d yo
u expect? I’ve been worried about you!”

  “Where’s Mom?” She looked around the restaurant.

  “Buona sera, Georgia!” Dorothy sang out behind her. Georgia barely recognized her mother. Gone were the chunky tribal jewelry, the shapeless shirts, the flowing palazzo pants. In their place were a peach skirt that hit at the knee, a silk blouse, and a strand of oversize pearls. Her straight gray hair, which usually hung past her shoulders, had been cut into a chin-length bob and colored a silvery blond.

  “Mom, did you just get a makeover or something? What’s with the Barbara Bush thing?”

  Dorothy grimaced. “It’s too much, isn’t it? I knew I looked like a Red Stater.” She turned to Hal. “I should have worn my clogs.”

  “You look fabulous, dear,” Hal said.

  Dorothy took her daughter’s hands. “You’re the one who looks fabulous, Georgia. You’re so thin!”

  “Oh, for God’s sakes, Dorothy. Of course she’s thin! She’s always been thin!” Hal turned to Vanessa. “Nice to meet you, by the way. Please call me Hal.”

  Vanessa grinned and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Hal. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Mom, this is my friend Vanessa. She’s here for moral support.”

  “Oh, come now, Georgia. We’re your parents. What kind of support do you need?” Dorothy asked.

  “The liquid kind, for one.” Georgia took the seat next to her dad and flagged down the waiter. “Campari rocks,” she told him.

  “Make that two,” Vanessa said.

  “Oh, is that the chic thing to order?” Dorothy asked. “Then I’ll have one too.”

  “It’s going to be a long night,” Georgia whispered under her breath.

  The waiter placed a family-style dish of tiramisù in the center of the table, and Georgia’s eyes lit up like a kid who’d just had her braces removed on Halloween night. It was her favorite dessert, and since Claudia banned it from all her restaurants (“Too sweet! Too fluffy!”), she’d barely eaten it all summer long.

  “Cappuccini?” the waiter sniffed, catering to their Americanness. Italians were as likely to drink coffee with milk after a meal as they were to jump from their tables, strip down to their Skivvies, and start humming the theme song from Rocky.

  “Decaf,” Dorothy said. She’d just returned from the restroom and smelled like smoke. “S’il vous plaît.”

  “Per favore, Mom,” Georgia said. “S’il vous plaît is French.”

  “At least I’m trying,” Dorothy said. “Can you give me credit for trying?”

  Georgia did have to give her mother props. Somehow, she’d managed to get through apps and entrées without once mentioning Glenn, Grammy, or Georgia’s job prospects. The three smoke breaks had probably helped, but still.

  The waiter retreated to fetch her decaf cappuccino, seeming somewhat disappointed that the others would take their coffee Italian-style, after dessert, without milk.

  “So, Georgia,” Dorothy said, “if you’re done picking on me, your father and I would like to talk to you.” The vein under her left eye fluttered almost imperceptibly. This did not bode well.

  “Leave me out of this one, Dot,” Hal said. “I’ll do my own talking.”

  “Dorothy, did you happen to buy that beautiful bag in Florence?” Vanessa pointed to the Kelly bag knockoff slung across the back of Dorothy’s chair. “I’ve been looking for a gift for my mother and that bag would be perfect.”

  “What? This? Oh, yes. At a wonderful store on via di San Niccolò,” Dorothy gushed. “Normally I don’t even like shopping, but you Italians just design everything so well. There’s even a compartment for my cell phone.” She flipped open the boxy bag. “So clever.”

  Hal grabbed Georgia’s hand. “Don’t mind your mother, George. You know how she can get sometimes.”

  “How’s that, Hal?” Dorothy asked.

  “Pushy?” Georgia offered. “Overbearing yet somehow oddly uninterested in anyone but yourself?”

  Dorothy looked as if a Vespa-riding thief had just sped off into the night with her clever new bag tucked under his arm. “That’s just mean, Georgia. Aren’t I here now? Helping you pick up the pieces of your shattered life?”

  Vanessa coughed. “So, Dorothy, that street where you got your bag is in the Oltrarno?”

  “Thanks, Vanessa, but I can handle this.” Georgia set down her fork and folded her hands on the table. “Let’s see, Mom. Yes, I was dumped by my coke-snorting ex; yes, I was fired from my job; and, yes, I was humiliated in the city’s number one newspaper.”

  “Number one?” Hal said. “No way. Number three, tops.”

  “Whatever.” Georgia took a swig of Dolcetto d’Alba. “I was left with an apartment I could barely afford in a city where I couldn’t get hired and couldn’t even show my face. And yet”—she sipped from her nearly empty wineglass—“and yet here I am in San Casciano, where I have not only helped open one of the most successful restaurants in Tuscany, but I have been offered an incredible job by a wine fanatic with whom I have had incredible sex.” No need to mention the part about Gianni never talking—let alone sleeping—with her again.

  “Speaking of wine, would anyone like more?” Vanessa asked, holding the bottle in her hand.

  “Let me finish, Vanessa. And”—Georgia glanced at her glass—“actually, yes, thank you, I would like more.” She turned back to Dorothy. “And I turned him down. I said no. Now I’m going back to New York where I intend to open my own restaurant because that’s what I want to do. More than anything else, that’s what I want to do.”

  Georgia sat back in her chair. “So, as you can see, my life isn’t shattered. Even without a job or fiancé to go home to, I’m not shattered. I have plans, Mom, big plans.”

  Dorothy was speechless. Hal drummed his fingers on the table, and Vanessa stared at the back of the waiter’s head with such intensity she could have drilled two perfect, eyeball-size holes straight through his skull.

  “Wow, Georgia,” Hal said at last. “Your own restaurant. Wonderful. Well, good for you. I’m sure it will be the best restaurant in all of New York.”

  “I think I need to go to the restroom,” Dorothy said, her face ashen.

  “Oh, Mom, just smoke here. No one will care.”

  Dorothy shook her head.

  Vanessa’s telepathic trick worked, and the waiter appeared with the espressos. His presence shifted the tension just enough to open a doggy-size door on conversation.

  “I didn’t know Glenn was a cocaine addict, Georgia. Not until you told me on the phone that you, that he, that the two of you had ended things,” Dorothy said. “I certainly wouldn’t have encouraged you to be with him if I’d known.”

  “All you cared about was that he was a lawyer. He could have been a Republican and you wouldn’t have cared.”

  “I don’t know about that.” In Dorothy’s mind, few things were worse than being aligned with the party that had produced George W. Bush and Sarah Palin.

  “Who cares about the job, but how did I lose the ever-wonderful lawyer Glenn? Why’d you want to marry me off so badly?”

  Dorothy stared at the few embers still glowing in the fireplace. It was late; the restaurant had cleared out. Their server stood by the kitchen furiously punching numbers into his cell phone, turning every once in a while to give his last, lingering table a dirty look. Dorothy pushed back her chair. “I need a cigarette,” she said, standing up.

  “Mom, smoke at the table. No one will care.”

  “Oh, what the hell.” She sat back down, pulled out a pack of American Spirits, and lit one, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth. “Believe it or not, Georgia, I wanted you to marry Glenn because I wanted you to be happy. Marrying your father was the best thing I ever did. I thought, I hoped, you’d be as happy being married as I’ve always been. It sounds crazy as I say it, but it’s true.”

  Georgia studied her mother. Her cool-blue eyes, slightly hooded, were fixed on Hal’s, and her fingers, unadorned, sa
ve for a thin gold band on her left ring finger, instinctively found his. With their elbows touching, their hands clasped, her parents were aligned, as they’d always been. “Why didn’t you tell me this at Uncle Paul’s? Instead of telling me how much you hate my job and how Grammy forced you to work, you should have told me this.”

  “It’s no secret that cooking isn’t the career I’d have chosen for you.”

  Georgia smiled thinly. “No, it isn’t, Mom, and we definitely don’t need to get into it again.”

  “But it’s what you’ve chosen and that’s what matters.”

  Georgia’s mouth dropped. She stared at her mother without saying a word until she felt Vanessa’s shoe on her shin. “Oh,” she managed.

  Dorothy dragged on her cigarette and looked at the waiter, who was glaring at them. “Hal, I think we should settle up. The waiter looks anxious.”

  “Why don’t you continue, Dot,” Hal said. “This is important.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded. “As for my mother, well, you know my relationship with her was never all that strong. It wasn’t terrible, but we weren’t particularly close. We told each other what we needed to and that was it. I didn’t even know her well enough to know she didn’t like tai chi.” Dorothy suddenly looked so sad Georgia thought her mother might cry.

  “Mom—”

  “Let me finish. And our relationship, mine and yours, has never been very strong either. I was too busy working and too busy being in love to be the kind of mother I knew you wanted. So you turned to my mother and she turned to you, and in each other you both found what you needed.” Dorothy tapped her cigarette on the saucer. “Much as I hated to admit it, hate to admit it, I was jealous of your relationship. Jealous of what you had with each other.”

  “But Grammy and I would have welcomed you anytime you wanted to be with us.”

  “I know that now. But back then it wasn’t so clear.” Dorothy paused. “I’m sorry, Georgia. I’m sorry I didn’t figure this all out a long time ago.”