Naples! (9780698152687)

by De Laurentiis, Giada; Gambatesa, Francesca (ILT)

  But there was still one thing left—the announcement of the festival winner. The judges all stood on the stage before a microphone as the entire square stopped what they were doing (namely, eating pizza) and listened closely.

  “One of the best years we’ve had at the festival,” the judge said. “But the top prize was no contest. This family’s pizza showed what Naples is all about—tradition combined with the future of pizza making. Congratulations to . . . Trattoria Floreano!”

  The family and Alfie and Emilia cheered and hugged as the brothers playfully teased that it was the change of sauce or the delicacy of the original dough that won them the big prize. Alfie had a different idea. He thought it probably had something to do with the way they felt while making the pizza. They felt happy and relieved now that the family feud was over. Zia Donatella had said herself that how you feel when you cook has a lot to do with how your food tastes, no matter the ingredients.

  “For tonight, I insist you and your family stay with us,” Marco said to Alfie and Emilia as they walked back to the restaurant. “After all you’ve done for our family, we must have you as our guests. What time are your parents coming back? Where are you staying tonight?”

  Alfie and Emilia eyed each other. The momentum of the day was finally coming to an end, and they had to face reality. How would they get home?

  “I wish we could,” Alfie said. “But we really have to go meet our parents.” At least that wasn’t a lie.

  Enzo came over to them. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  Emilia looked truly sorry. “We have our own family to get back to,” she said.

  “That’s something we can understand,” Enzo said.

  “We will see you again, though, yes?” Marco asked.

  Emilia and Alfie looked at each other. They knew the true answer but couldn’t say it out loud. Instead, Alfie said, “I sure hope so.”

  The entire Floreano family waved good-bye to the Bertolizzi kids, all with promises to see each other again and to please come back anytime. Once they rounded the corner, Alfie could see how sad Emilia was to be leaving. He flung his arm over her shoulder and said, “It’ll be okay. And maybe we really will see them again.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But I guess we have bigger problems right now. As in, how are we going to get home?”

  “That,” Alfie said, “is the best question I’ve heard all day.”

  He had no idea what they were going to do.

  “Maybe we should go back to the zeppole vendor?” Emilia suggested once they’d turned the corner from Trattoria Floreano, where they’d walked back to in order to get their bearings. “That’s where it all started, right?”

  “Good idea,” Alfie said. He remembered the way, checking street signs and landmarks as he led them through the streets once again. “Maybe we can use the money Signore Floreano gave us for helping out with the pizza to buy another zeppole.” Signore Floreano had insisted the Bertolizzis be paid for their help, and Alfie felt better having a little local money in his pocket.

  “Only if the vendor guy doesn’t chase after us again, that is,” Emilia said.

  “At least this time we have money. Anyway, maybe he won’t recognize us,” Alfie said, and he hoped he was right. He really didn’t want to end this adventurous day by sitting in some jail cell with no way to call home, much less get home.

  It turned out they didn’t need to worry about the zeppole vendor. When they got to the street where they’d first arrived, the spot where his cart had been was empty.

  “Now what?” Emilia asked.

  Alfie didn’t have a clue. How do you get back to where you were if you have no idea how you got to where you are?

  “Let’s walk and think,” Alfie said, hoping inspiration would hit.

  Alfie guided them down the streets through Quartieri Spagnoli, past Piazza Martiri and finally the tree-filled lawns of Villa Comunale where they faced the Gulf of Naples. Maybe they should catch a boat somewhere—but where? Maybe, in reality, his parents really were here, in Naples? Or this was some sort of bizarre dream? He didn’t believe that, even as he didn’t know what to believe. He only knew today felt as real as any day he’d had back home. As much as he didn’t want it to end, he knew he wanted to be in his home, with his family. So they’d have to keep thinking.

  They spotted a lone vendor on the lawn of Villa Comunale, selling to couples and late-day stragglers hoping to catch the sun setting into the sea. The smell of fresh fish and something fried from the vendor sent his stomach rumbling despite the excellent pizza they’d had not long ago.

  “Want to get a snack?” he asked his sister.

  “Sure.”

  They went to the vendor, a smiling old man with brown eyes that sparkled in the fading sun, who sold fried-fish sandwiches wrapped in white paper.

  “Squeeze of lemon?” the vendor asked, holding up a lemon wedge.

  Alfie shrugged and said yes, and the vendor squeezed a little lemon juice over the sandwiches.

  “Let’s sit close to the water, on that wall over there,” Alfie suggested after they’d paid for their sandwiches. He led his sister carefully across Via Francesco Caracciolo and up onto the wall. They let their feet dangle over the edge of the wall. The cool, salty air blew across their faces as they bit into their fried-fish sandwiches.

  “Oh my gosh,” Alfie said, looking down at his food.

  “I know,” Emilia said. “This is so good.”

  It was—crispy crust holding in the flaky whitefish with a hint of zest from the lemon. And the homemade bread made it even more delicious.

  “You remember that time,” Alfie began, “we went to the beach and you were so scared to get in the water that Mom had to bring you a bucketful and let you dip your toe in so you’d know there was nothing to be afraid of?”

  “I wasn’t afraid,” Emilia said indignantly. “I’d heard some other kids saying there might be jellyfish and I just didn’t want to get stung.”

  “Oh yeah. You made Dad promise you that there weren’t any jellyfish before you’d go in.”

  “He said it was a jellyfish-free beach and it was illegal for them to swim there,” she said, smiling.

  “And later that day it was Dad who got stung,” Alfie said, and they both laughed.

  “He kept hopping around the beach, holding his leg out to strangers, going, ‘It’s a sting, what should I do?’”

  “Mom was so embarrassed.”

  “I was so embarrassed,” Emilia said.

  “That was the trip I learned to bodysurf,” Alfie said, looking out at the water. Do kids here in Italy bodysurf? he wondered. He took another bite into his sandwich, remembering how it felt to coast on the waves.

  “That was the trip I totally beat you at Frisbee.”

  “You can’t win at a game where no one keeps score,” Alfie said.

  Emilia took another bite and said, “There was that little shack on the beach that sold Cokes in glass bottles that you had to return for a refund. And the fish and chips.”

  “Those fish and chips,” Alfie said, “were the best.”

  “Best ever,” Emilia agreed.

  They sat quietly on the wall and remembered that trip and how the fish and chips tasted crispy and salty and so yummy after a long day in the sun and how much they’d laughed and played. Alfie remembered how Mom leaned back into Dad as they watched him and Emilia stuff their faces with the shack food. “What beach bums,” Dad had said.

  Alfie didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes at the memory until something strange began to happen—strange but familiar. A shift in the air. For a moment he felt he couldn’t even open his eyes, but even so, everything around him felt different, even smelled different. When he finally opened his eyes, everything had changed. It wasn’t the Gulf of Naples he saw now. It was his great-aunt Donatella, smiling at him and hi
s sister in the kitchen of their own home. It had happened. Again. Except now they were home.

  “Zia Donatella?” Alfie said, not quite believing all that had happened.

  “Well,” she said with a wink. “What do you think?”

  “You have to stop telling people,” Emilia said to her brother on their walk home from school the next day. “No one believes us.”

  “How could I not tell people I spent the day in Naples, Italy, yesterday?” Alfie said, surprised his sister would pass up an opportunity to tell the entire school about their travels and adventures. “Don’t you want to tell your little friends about Enzo?”

  “Be quiet,” she said, slugging him in the arm. Alfie pretended like she socked him hard.

  “How do you think we can get back?” he asked. He wanted to see Marco again, taste more food, and explore more twisting streets.

  “We’re still not sure how we got there in the first place,” Emilia said. “I’m not even sure it all really happened.”

  “You know it did,” Alfie said as they walked up to their front door. “And I know you want to go back just as much as I do.”

  “Maybe. I just wonder—what’s that noise?” Emilia asked as they shut the front door behind them. “Is that . . . Mom and Zia? In the kitchen?”

  “No way,” Alfie said.

  In the kitchen they found their mom laughing as she sliced vegetables. Next to her, Zia Donatella shredded cheese on a box grater. “Always with the grating!” she said in mock anger.

  “I could go buy the pregrated kind,” Mom said. She wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “Pregrated!” was all Zia Donatella could say to that, which made Mom laugh even harder.

  “What’s going on?” Alfie asked.

  “Oh, hi, kids,” Mom said. “Nothing. Just dinner.” She tossed the vegetables she’d been slicing into a pan of hot oil. It crackled and sizzled and she gave it all a quick stir.

  “You’re making dinner?” Emilia asked. “As in, cooking it?”

  “Don’t tease your mother,” Zia Donatella said. “She’s actually a very good cook.”

  “But she never cooks,” Alfie said. She was always too busy with work, just like Dad.

  “Hush, you kids!” Mom said. “You’re making me look bad in front of Zia. Oh, you can stop grating the cheese.”

  “Mama mia! My arm is about to fall off!” Zia said, and they both fell into another fit of laughter.

  Dad came into the kitchen and looked as confused by the scene as Alfie and Emilia did.

  “They’re cooking,” Alfie deadpanned.

  “Dinner?” Dad asked.

  This time everyone laughed—what else would they be cooking?

  Mom and Zia made a feast of pasta with fresh vegetables for dinner, and everyone got to help. Emilia turned the regular butter into herb butter, and Alfie sliced the warm ciabatta bread fresh out of the oven. Dad made the salad with ingredients Zia Donatella set out for him.

  They all sat around the table together and dug into the meal, which was hot and fresh and tasted better than any meal they’d had together at home. Having Zia Donatella there was like the freshly made whipped cream on top of the gelato they’d be having for dessert—something to make the night extraspecial.

  But as closely as they looked, Zia Donatella gave no hint of what had happened to Alfie and Emilia, if she knew about it or had anything to do with it. Even when prompted with questions like, “Zia, does this food remind of you Naples? Of, like, going to Naples and walking around the cobblestoned streets?”

  “Yeah, Zia,” Alfie said. “Like walking along Via Vecchia and going to the mercato?”

  “Alfie, you’ve been staring at those maps too much,” Dad said. “He’s got the streets memorized and everything!”

  Alfie thought he saw Zia’s eyebrow shoot up in acknowledgment, but it was so quick he couldn’t be sure.

  After dessert, Alfie said, “Mom, don’t forget our school potluck tomorrow. We signed up for pizza, so we need to order it in the morning.” Alfie was actually sort of curious to eat delivery pizza now that he’d had the freshest of handmade pizzas in Naples. Would he still love Presto Pesto?

  “Order?” Mom said. “We’re not ordering anything. We’re making it!”

  “Do we have tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and basil?” Alfie asked.

  “Since when do you know about making pizza from scratch?” Mom said, getting up from the table. From the pantry she took out a bowl with a cloth towel draped over the top. She pulled it back gently to give Alfie and Emilia a peek, but they could smell it before they saw the fresh, rising dough. What smelled better than that? Mom put it back and said, “Zia and I will make it in the morning and bring it fresh to your school. No need to worry.”

  “Zia’s going to help make it?” Emilia asked, and Alfie could see that something good was whisking through her mind.

  “Yes, of course,” Mom said.

  “Pizza is my specialty,” Zia said.

  “It’s really amazing,” Mom said. “Simple, but full of flavor.”

  “As long as the tomatoes are from the hills of Mount Vesuvius,” Emilia said.

  “Very good, young lady,” Zia Donatella said.

  Mom looked at Emilia and said, “How do you know that?”

  “You know, history lessons at school and stuff,” Emilia said, as if it were no big deal. “We learned about the volcano, and our teacher told us other stuff about the hills surrounding Naples.”

  “Maybe our kids really are Italian,” Dad joked.

  “Sometimes I feel like I barely remember Naples, even though I grew up there,” Mom said.

  “Same here,” Dad said. “I have little flashes of memories, like of the old pasta factory and the wall down by the gulf, but not much else.”

  Alfie thought he would burst at the mention of things he himself had just seen and experienced, but Zia Donatella gave him a look that said he should play it cool. So as hard as it was, he did his best. “We should all go together,” he said. “Visit Italy, hang out in Naples. You could show us where you grew up.”

  “And where you used to get pizza,” Emilia said. Alfie was positive that she was thinking of Trattoria Floreano. What if their parents had eaten there as children? They might know the Floreano brothers!

  Mom looked at Dad across the table and said, “You know, we should really think about doing that.”

  Dad smiled back and said, “No reason why we shouldn’t.”

  Alfie and Emilia happily finished their gelato knowing that something magical had happened that evening—something that had everything to do with food, Zia Donatella, and the simple act of eating together.

  When Mom dropped off the still-hot pizzas at school the next day, Alfie had one very important question to ask her.

  “Zia helped make these, right?”

  “I can cook on my own, you know,” Mom said. “But yes, she did help. I kept her on cheese duty.” She ruffled his hair and told him to have a fun lunch with his friends. The school had combined grade levels for the potluck, and Emilia and her friends were in his group as well.

  The classroom was transformed into a mini United Nations, with flags from all over the world hung on the walls, and tables lined up around half the room filled with foods as colorful as the flags themselves. Ms. Esch and Ms. James, two of the teachers helping out today, worked on setting up the dishes and making sure there were plenty of plates, napkins, forks, and even chopsticks for all the students.

  “Hey, Alfredo,” called a boy in Alfie’s class who was sort of his friend but also sort of annoying. His name was Charlie and he was pointing to the pizzas that Alfie was keeping a careful watch on. Alfie felt protective of them, but he wasn’t yet sure why. “Did you fly this in from Rome?”

  Charlie was trying to tease Alfie, but Alfie wouldn’t let him. “You mean
Naples, and no, my mom and aunt made it fresh.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Charlie said. “So, what—you’re going to Rome tomorrow or something?”

  “Not sure,” Alfie said, shrugging like he was actually considering it.

  “Hey, Alfie,” said Becky, a girl in his class who leaned over the box of pizza. “When, exactly, did you go to Italy?”

  “Not long ago,” Alfie said. The way Becky leaned over the pizza made him think that she actually wanted to hear about his trip—unlike Charlie. “If you want I could tell you all about it after school. Like how I escaped from a thief through an underground cemetery.”

  “Wow! Really?” Becky said.

  “Really,” Alfie said.

  “Excuse me, Alfredo?” Emilia said. She eyed Becky. “A word, please?”

  “I’ll be right back,” he told Becky.

  Emilia literally pulled him by his arm across the room to a corner by the bratwurst of Germany. “Hey, listen,” she said, speaking quietly. “I was thinking. Did Mom say Zia Donatella helped with the pizzas?”

  “After she got totally offended at me for asking, she said she did.”

  “So you know what this means,” Emilia said. “When people start biting into our pizzas, it’s gonna be wham-o! Transported back to Naples!”

  “I know!” Alfie said. “I was thinking the same thing!” Alfie pictured himself acting as tour guide through the city, showing his classmates how to get to the market, Trattoria Floreano, the catacombs, and more. Maybe this time they’d have time to visit Mount Vesuvius. Alfie knew his sister would love seeing it.

  “Okay, everyone!” Ms. Esch called to the students. “Time to present our dishes.”

  The students gathered in the center of the room. Students were in teams of two or three to present their country or region and the food they brought to represent it. They listened through bangers and mash from England, tamales from Mexico, couscous from Morocco, and lots more. When it was time for Alfie and Emilia to present, Emilia took the lead.