The Queen of Minor Disasters
Read The Queen of Minor Disasters Online
Authors: Antonietta Mariottini
The Queen
Of
Minor Disasters
a novel with recipes
Antonietta Mariottini
This is a work of fiction. The
characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any
similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by
the author.
Copyright © 2012 by Antonietta
Mariottini
Recipes by Antonietta
Mariottini and Graziella Iacovino
Cover art by Tom Delaney
All rights reserved
No part of this publication
may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods,
without prior written permission of the author.
For Gian Luca and
Francesco, with love
Table of Contents and
recipe index
Recipe:
Chocolate Cake for a Heartbreak
Recipe:
Penne alla Norma (or The Last Supper)
Recipe:
Bananas Foster (for when your life goes up in flames)
Recipe:
Potato and Onion Frittata
Recipe:
Chocolate Chip Cookies for Good Karma
Recipe:
Zuccherini Cookies for an Italian Bride
Recipe:
Death by Chocolate Milkshake
Recipe:
Mac and Cheese for a Knocked-up Bride
Recipe:
Breakfast for a New Woman
I can imagine it already.
Drew will walk through the
front doors holding a big bouquet of roses (not that he’s ever brought me
flowers, but you never know, people can change. And anyway, tonight’s a
special
night). I’ll be at the hostess
stand, juggling a million things like I always do, but as soon as I see him
wearing one of his Brooks Brothers suits, the world will stop. Slowly, he’ll
walk towards me and hand me the bouquet. Before I can even say “thank you”
he’ll cup my face in his hands and give me kiss. At this point, the entire
restaurant will be watching; service will stop for a minute, as everybody
awaits what’s coming next. Then, without saying a word, Drew will drop down to
one knee and take my hand. He’ll look up at me with those gorgeous blue eyes
and say…
“Um, Stella,” I hear a female
voice snapping me out of my thoughts. Oh, right. I rest my hands on the hostess
stand which I’ve been leaning on for the past couple hours. I must start taking
this job more seriously. But honestly, it does get a little boring. Not that I
mind
. I really do enjoy managing my
brother’s restaurant, but the truth is, the place pretty much runs itself.
Ask anyone what the best
restaurant down the shore is and they’ll say “Lorenzo’s.” Not to brag or
anything, but it’s true. And from the way this night is going, it looks like
our fifth season is off to a great start. If it stays like this, the summer
will be smooth sailing.
“Stella?”
Oh, right.
I turn to look at Michelle, one
of the waitresses here. She’s been with us for two summers and is usually fully
capable of handling her own section. “What’s up?”
“Disaster at table twelve.”
I scan the restaurant trying
not to look too obvious, and then focus my eyes on the single lady on table
twelve. She looks normal enough. Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun and
her skin is a little too bronzed for the second week of June, but besides that,
I don’t see any red flags. “What’s the problem?”
“Her husband left,” Michelle
says with a hint of tension in her voice. She scans the restaurant, looking at
the rest of her tables. “He’s probably just in the bathroom.” I look at the
table again, and see the lady slumped in a chair. Maybe her husband did leave.
Or maybe this is a ploy to run out on the bill. Well, not on my watch.
I keep my cool, but the thing
is, I’m a little nervous. It’s times like these that I really wish my brother
Mario was here. He’s the General Manager of my family’s other restaurant, La
Cucina, and he’d know
exactly
what
to do.
I hear a sob and my eyes dart
directly to table twelve.
Michelle looks at me. “I think
you need to go over there. She’s pretty drunk.”
I sigh. Sometimes being a
restaurant manager requires more than putting on a nice dress and smiling at the
customers. Those are the times I dread, because honestly, I never wanted this
job in the first place. It was sort of handed to me with my college diploma
(which was in English,
not
Restaurant Management, by the way). “Let’s go,” I say and move towards the
table.
The sobbing continues and a
few other people have turned to look at the woman. I can’t help feeling bad for
her, I mean, what if her husband really did
leave
her? Right here in our restaurant? That can’t be good karma.
“Hello,” I say when I get to
the table.
She looks up at me and gives
me a weak smile. Her cheeks are stained with mascara streaks, and she looks a
bit severe. I pick up a napkin and hand it to her.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just a little
lonely.” She slurs the word “little.”
And a little drunk.
“Maybe I can help,” I offer.
“Oh, it’s really not a big
deal,” she sniffles. “My husband just had to go. He’s on call.”
I give her a strange look.
“He’s a
doctor
,” she snaps.
Oh, right. I knew he wouldn’t
just leave her. Not at Lorenzo’s, our food is too good.
“What kind of doctor?” I ask
to keep the conversation going. Her tears have dried up and she’s sort of
smiling at me. See, it just goes to show you that a little kindness goes a long
way. That’s the trick to being a manager, of course. I mean, all you need to do
is recognize what people need and serve it up to them. No biggie.
“He’s a…” she pauses and her
face wrinkles into a scowl, “surgeon.” She sobs again. “He said he got an
emergency call but I know better. I’m not stupid.” I nod my head because it
seems like the right response.
“His girlfriend called and he
just up and left,” she continues. “My therapist said I should just ignore it,
but how is that possible?” She looks at me as though I have the answers. The
only thing I know for sure is that she needs a new therapist.
I shrug my shoulders.
“And the worst part is she’s
only
thirty
,” she nearly screams.
Slowly, she gives me an accusatory look, as if my being nearly thirty is a
mortal sin.
I look around to see other
customers staring at us. Just as I’m about to walk away, it hits me. Of course!
This woman doesn’t need a crap ass therapist to tell her how to react. She
needs Food Therapy!
I’m a strong believer in Food
Therapy, which is the theory that all of life’s problems can be solved by
eating the right foods. I’m not talking about nutrition here, people. I mean
comfort foods
. And I personally know Food
Therapy works because just last night I was feeling frazzled, so I ate some
hazelnut gelato and poof, I was one hundred percent better!
The major players in my
personal Food Therapy repertoire are Bindi hazelnut gelato, a slice of Chuck’s
chocolate orange cake, or my mom’s famous meatballs. I think of which option
would be best for this situation.
“I have just the thing to make
you feel better,” I say putting my arm on the woman’s shoulder.
She looks up at me in
interest. “Vodka?” She turns to see if we have a bar, which unfortunately we
don’t. Like most restaurants down the shore we’re BYOB.
“Even
better
,” I answer quickly. “Just wait
here.”
I rush up to the dessert
display case and reach in for a piece of decadent chocolate cake. Our
sous-chef, Chuck, does an amazing job with all the pastries, but his specialty
is this cake, with its dark chocolate and hint of orange.
I cut a thick slice and lay it
on a plate, then drizzle some vanilla crème over it and add candied orange
peels as a garnish. If
this
doesn’t
cure a heartache, I don’t know what will.