It was Aunt Gina’s turn to be outraged. All five feet of her snapped into action. “Raymond! Leftovers are not garbage. That’s an awful thing to say. Apologize.”
“Hey, Ma. Chill. You’ve all said that Sharon’s cooking is garbage.” He laughed at what he thought was a good joke. The therapy is definitely not working.
“Hey, Raymond. Put a sock in it.” Russell rarely showed anger, but he wasn’t about to take any criticism about his wife’s cooking when she’d finally shown some interest. I wondered if Dad was ready with a sock joke. We don’t think that our table conversations should necessarily be polite, and they usually do grow loud and edgy. We’re okay with that until we hear someone say something like “And just what is that supposed to mean?” or “I’m coming over there to knock your effing head off.” Then it’s time to clear the table and go on to another course. I got up and asked for help clearing the ravioli plates.
The second course went much like the first. Mark ate the potatoes, Nonna’s peppers, and salad. Sharon is Jewish, so she passed on the roast pork and the sausage. Uncle Little Joey made up for no ravioli pasta with generous helpings of all the meat, and Uncle Mike pushed salad around his plate. Most of us followed our ravioli course with roast pork, roasted potatoes, peppers with sauce, braciole, sausages, meatballs, and heartburn. Nonna’s remedy for poor digestion is salad, which she calls “the stomach’s toothbrush.” It does lighten the load, so that those who really wish to punish themselves can stay at the table and eat dessert.
Chapter 11
What am I gonna do about you?
—Reba McEntire
On Tuesday morning, my train was late and I arrived at the studio a little after five-thirty. I went straight to the buffet, grabbed a large coffee and a cheese Danish and told myself I’d go back for muffins later. There were too many to choose from and I wanted to get to the kitchen before anyone else so I could get organized before having to give directions.
Danny was already there. He was leaning against the far counter, legs crossed at the ankles, sipping a cup of coffee.
“Good morning, Chef,” he said. “You’re late.”
“Well, good morning to you. You’re very early.”
He looked at his watch. “You said five-thirty?”
“I know. It’s just unusual for chefs to get here so early in the morning after a restaurant night.” I put my coffee and Danish on Romeo and then slipped my purse and tote off my shoulder and dropped them on the floor. “Don’t you ever go to bed?”
The corners of his mouth turned up in a slow, wicked smile. “Whenever I get the chance.”
“I meant, do you sleep?”
“Like a baby.”
“Glad to hear it. I see you have coffee. Would you like a Danish?” I reluctantly moved my Danish to the center of the table. “There’s also a huge buffet spread out in the hallway.”
“No thanks. I never eat on an empty stomach.”
“Well, mine never is.” I broke a Danish in half to expose more of the cheese and took a bite.
“Okay. So what do I do?” Danny asked, walking over to Romeo and putting both his hands on the surface.
I reached into my tote and took out his scripts, as well as the recipes and scripts for today and tomorrow’s shows. I was spreading them out in front of him when Mae walked in, followed by two of the Tonys.
“Well, top o’ the morning to you,” Mae said with a huge smile. “Hey, Casey. That was an awesome party, Danny!”
Danny gave a little bow. “Top o’ the morning to you, love. I’m glad you had a good time. It’s the truth I had nothing to do with it, except for the food.”
“Well, that was the best part.”
“I thought the best part was seeing you lasses all decked out for the party. You were a force, I can tell you. I’m glad you all came.” He smiled, and I’m pretty sure I heard Mae sigh before getting to work on several cans of Pillsbury dough. We didn’t need backups, but we did need a number of finished calzones for a beauty shot.
I sat down at Romeo with Danny, explained to him the difference between setups for live and taped spots, and showed him how that pertained to his scripts. He was fascinated and said he’d had no idea that cooking on television involved so much. “I would have thought you just cooked and the cameras rolled.”
“Most people don’t know how much preparation and product go into one brief cooking spot,” I said.
When we’d gone over all the scripts, he reached for the chef’s coat and tool kit he’d brought and asked, “So, what can I do?”
“Do you really want to work?”
“If you promise you won’t sing.”
“I’ll try to control myself.”
“Well now, don’t go that far.”
I rolled my eyes at him and gave him a pile of onions to chop for the chili.
Sonya popped in briefly to see how things were going. I had told her that Danny would be here to observe, so she wasn’t surprised to see him.
“Good morning, all. That was a wonderful party, Danny.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Do you feel prepared for next week now that you have the scripts and a sense of how we do things?”
“No problem. Casey’s been a huge help.”
Jonathan came in as Sonya was leaving. “I am not happy!” he said, and in case we hadn’t heard him or couldn’t read the pout on his face, he repeated himself. “I am not happy!”
“Somehow, I’d picked up on that, Jonathan,” I said. “But for your information, calzones are not brown. They’re beige.”
“Beige is just a variation of brown. And what about the salami? Caca brown. Couldn’t you have thrown in some roasted red peppers?”
“It’s his mother’s recipe. He just didn’t want to change it. Believe me, we asked.” I knew Jonathan was very close to his own mother and thought this might temper his annoyance. It did as far as the calzones were concerned, but he had other issues.
“And tomorrow, what do we have? Brown chili. Don’t even get me started on that.” That’s the last thing I wanted to do. “I can’t wait to see next week’s scripts. Let me guess: it’s brown-meat week?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, handing him the scripts for Danny’s show with the lamb dish on top, “it is.” To ward off another hissy fit, I immediately introduced him to Danny and he politely shook his hand before going to his cupboard—still pouting but, thankfully, saying no more about the lamb. Danny shot me a questioning look and I mouthed the words “I’ll tell you later.”
At six o’ clock, our cohost Jim came into the kitchen to see if our baseball player had arrived yet. He hadn’t, but Jim hung around like a little kid outside a pro sports locker room. He shuffled around outside the door for a while, then came in and engaged Danny in conversation. He’d been to Oran Mor, and although he’d come hoping to talk batting averages, he seemed pleased to chat with Danny about Ireland. Our baseball player showed up around six-thirty, and it was hard to keep him on track since Jim was more interested in next year’s starting lineup than provolone, salami, and the Pillsbury Doughboy. Luckily, they called Jim to the set just about the time he was suggesting “a little catch” outside behind the studio. He’d brought his own baseball.
The calzone spot wound up being a charming segment that looked very natural—just a couple of guys standing around, rolling up calzones, talking sports, and trying not to spit or scratch on national television. I told Danny that he would do his live spot with Karen instead of Jim and that she would keep things moving as far as timing and conversation were concerned.
“Lack of conversation is not an Irish affliction,” he pointed out. I thought about my father and said, “I know. You’ll do just fine.” When the show was over, we took a break before going into high gear for tomorrow’s prep.
“I’m going out for a smoke,” Mae said.
“I’m going back to the buffet for some muffins. Are you ready for something to eat, Danny?”
&nb
sp; “I don’t know, but I’ll go with you and see what they’ve got.”
“Anyone else want anything?”
Mae asked for a raspberry yogurt and the Tonys both asked if they could go outside with Mae.
“Go for it.”
To get to the buffet, we had to pass behind the set through a dimly lit passageway. I was all too acutely aware that I was alone with a bold flirt who oozed testosterone. I picked up my pace, but he took hold of my arm and stopped me. “Are you walking that fast to get away from me?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you keep ignoring my attempts to seduce you.” He still had his hand on my arm and he ran it up to my shoulder. The touch sent an uninvited tingle through my body. “But I know you’re crazy about me.”
Oh! The arrogance! I thought he might get the point if I shrugged his hand away, but it felt pretty good where it was, so I let him leave it there. “We’ve had this conversation before and I told you, I’m not interested.”
“And that’s because you think I’m some kind of mole?”
“Vole. Meadow vole.”
“Whatever. Is that the only reason?”
“That’s pretty much it.”
“I think it’s pretty heartless to stomp on small critters before finding out if they mean you any harm.”
“I didn’t stomp.”
He threw his hand over his heart. “You have no idea.”
He looked so wounded that I laughed. “If you feel stomped upon by me, then I am sorry.”
He put his hands on the wall on either side of me, locking me in front of him. “Well, you could make it up to me.”
I ducked under one arm and continued to the buffet. “Not that sorry,” I said.
“Look at all this!” he exclaimed when he saw the long buffet table. “It’s brilliant.”
“Well, the pastries didn’t come from Jacques Torres, but they’re not bad.” I handed him a plate and he selected a plain bagel. He put a small container of cream cheese on the plate next to the bagel. I decided to take just one muffin, even though I had planned to take at least two. I grabbed a yogurt for Mae.
The kitchen was empty when we returned. We sat down at Romeo, across from each other. Danny cut his bagel in half and started to spread cream cheese on it. I offered to toast it under the broiler, but he said he liked it that way.
“You know, I don’t know much about American baseball, but it occurs to me that I should have talked to that baseball player about the game.”
“Why’s that?”
“He might have had a few tips about what to do when you keep striking out.”
I cocked my head and smirked at him. “You get benched.”
“For how long?”
“That’s up to the coach.”
He took the last bite of bagel and grinned. “Well, that’s good, because I think the coach is really hot to put me in the game but just won’t admit it.”
I might have told him he was wrong, but I think my body’s sexual receptors would have reached out and slapped me. They wouldn’t understand that at the moment, I was brokenhearted and vulnerable and no matter how charming this man was, he was not the answer to my problems. I was grateful that Mae and the Tonys returned before I had to say anything.
It was super having the extra pair of hands in the kitchen; we moved along at record speed. As Danny worked, he chatted and charmed the others, even Jonathan, who told him his lamb dish was going to be fine. “You won’t believe what I can do with parsley,” he told Danny, without looking at me. He probably knew I was squinting daggers at him. As for any more suggestive advances, Danny kept them in check except for the times when I passed him on my way to the sink. He had figured out that unless he scooted way in I was either going to skim my breasts against his back or face the other way and risk a summit of our backsides. He made it harder by backing up every time I had to go by him.
By about ten-thirty, we had finished just about all we had to do.
“Well, I’d better get back to the restaurant,” Danny said, taking off his chef’s coat and laying it on a stool. “They’ll be well into lunch prep by now.” He patted the Tonys on the back and thanked them, shook hands with Jonathan, and gave Mae a big hug and told her she was the best. I was next, and I figured I came under the hug category, so I was trying to determine if I should just hug him back or kiss him on the cheek, as I often do with the guest chefs I know and like. Before he came to where I was standing by the door, he picked up his coat and tool kit, which meant that there wasn’t much arm left for hugging. What’s that all about? One minute he’s all over me and the next he’s planning on squeezing me in between his dirty laundry and used chef’s tools. I felt as though I’d just been voted off the island. He can forget the kiss on the cheek.
“I’ll be seeing you, Casey,” he said and bent down and kissed me. Just like that. On the lips. Not a long kiss, but one that felt so passionate and intimate that my toes curled and I was speechless. He walked out the door without saying another word.
I didn’t say anything either until I noticed Mae grinning at me with raised eyebrows.
“What?” I said.
“It sure looks like you two have got it going on.”
“No way, Mae. Flirting is just an extracurricular activity for him. It has no effect on me.” Liar. Liar. Pants on fire.
I MET MARY FOR lunch at a small burger joint on a side street near where she works. The smell of burgers, bacon, and onions on the grill was so strong that I was sure people wouldn’t notice that I smelled of hamburger, onions, and chilies. Mary was already sitting in a booth when I walked in.
“I could smell you the minute you walked in,” she said. Hey, what are best friends for if not to tell you when you smell? The waiter came over and we both ordered cheeseburgers and Diet Cokes.
“What were you cooking?”
“Calzones and five-alarm chili. Danny was in this morning to help.”
“So?” Mary raised her eyebrows at me. “How did that go?”
The waiter delivered our burgers and we greedily took big bites, letting the grease drip over our hands and ooze toward our elbows.
I told her about the trip through the passageway and then the kiss before he left. I finished by saying that I was not interested. She put her burger down, wiped the grease off her hands with several flimsy paper napkins, and put her elbows on the table.
“Casey, ever since the fifth grade when Bobby Morgan dumped you for Carla D’Angelo—”
“Carla D’Angelo was a skank.”
“Whatever. Since then, you only go out with guys that you go after. Anytime anyone the least bit aggressive shows an interest in you, you write him off as insincere. The problem is, eventually you aren’t happy with the predictable guys you pick. You want spontaneity, excitement, a little bit crazy. That’s the forward, aggressive type, Casey. That’s a Danny.”
“That’s a dangerous thought, Mary.”
“That’s what’s so appealing about it. What are you afraid of?”
“Well, for one, my guess is he’s just interested in a quick fling. Probably has them in the walk-in all the time.”
“So you have a quick fling with him. He’s pretty damn hot.”
“You know, Mary, sometimes I think you’re as bad as your mother thinks you are.”
“Probably worse.” She started to sing, “‘I want to get to heaven before I die.’”
“Nathan Moore,” I said, identifying the singer.
“With the Slip at the Iron Horse. You were in the front row, screaming ‘me too.’ Remember?”
“I remember, but I have a feeling a fling with Danny would put me in the opposite afterworld.”
“So, Dark Cloud, is there a number two on your list of reasons for turning your back on that gorgeous hunk? And if you mention anything about being in mourning over Richard, I’ll throw up.”
“It’s not about Richard. I don’t want to be in a contest with women like the hotties at the r
estaurant who were throwing themselves at Danny.”
“Why not?” she said, finishing her last bite of burger. “You’d win.”
Chapter 12
Hot mama.
—Trace Adkins
Sally breezed into the studio at six the next morning. After greeting me as though she couldn’t believe her eyes that I was here, she said she’d arrived in New York late last night after spending a delightful weekend with friends north of Baltimore. She was in a very up-beat mood.
“I’d like to sit down and look over the cookery books first,” she said. “There’s nothing much for me to remember for the chili spot.” Since the firefighter would be making the recipe, all Sally had to do was be entertaining and charming and act interested. She could do that in her sleep.
I piled the cookbooks on Romeo. “Do you have the scripts with you or do you want mine to ignore?” She gave me her sheepish grin. Scripts were merely guidelines for Sally; she’d do and say whatever came into her head and it would be better than anything we could have spent weeks writing.
Since we had gotten so much done on Tuesday, our work for the chili segment was pretty much a snap. Because it was a live show, we didn’t need backups, and although there were a few swaps, we’d gotten them done the day before. Mae pulled a number of containers out of the refrigerator and transferred the contents to pans so she could reheat them. Jonathan came in and when he saw Sally, he quickly removed his pout and replaced it with a smile. He said nothing about the color of the chili but proudly showed her the flowers he had brought to decorate the cookbook set. “I’m going to put them in one of my special copper pans. A vase would be just too common. What do you think of that, Mrs. Woods?”
“I think it’s a fine idea, Jonathan.” I knew that Sally didn’t care about decoration at all. As long as the food looked good, she was happy with a setup.
“Make sure the copper finish is dull, Jonathan,” I said. “We don’t want the lights to create a glare on the metal.”
Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance Page 13
