The Queen of Minor Disasters (17 page)

“I don’t even know what life
is like without a restaurant,” I sigh.

“You’ve got the perfect excuse
to find out now,” Roberto replies and for a second, I feel better.

 Just as I’m about to say
thank you, the first firework erupts in the sky.

Tonight, it sounds like a
bomb.

Mr. Lancetti wasn’t the only
person to announce the closing of La Cucina. A few days after the Fourth,
Amanda Hut, the restaurant reviewer for the
Philadelphia
Explorer
, wrote a full-page article about our twenty years in
business, complete with vintage pictures of the restaurant before we remodeled
in 2001, and glorious description of the food. She was nice enough to include
Lorenzo’s address and phone number in the article, so business has been booming.

My parents are also in over
their heads at La Cucina. The article prompted people from all over the
tri-state area to come out for one last dinner. One woman showed up with a gift
certificate from 1989. Back when we were hand writing them, we sometimes forgot
to write an expiration date on the back, so my mother had to honor it. We
laughed about it over the phone that night.

You see all types of people in
this business. That’s for sure.

Amanda Hut’s article placed an
emphasis on our homemade items, especially the time consuming pastas and
intricate desserts, so I’ve been getting up really early and going into the
restaurant to bake, which is the perfect excuse not to think about Drew and the
fact that he hasn’t called.

So far, I’ve not been so
successful.

It’s okay though, because I
have a plan. By Monday, it will be four weeks exactly since we broke up, and,
as you know, Gina and I have formulated the perfect, get-Drew-back plan.

But never mind about that now.
I have cakes to make.

And to be quite honest, making
cakes is not as easy as it originally sounded.

Of course, it’s nothing I
can’t handle. It’s just a little
different
than I imagined.

I kept Chuck’s amazing
chocolate cake in the repertoire, and with a few instructional phone calls, was
able to perfect it.

Well, almost anyway. I mean,
who cares if it had a big crack down the middle. The point is, it tasted good.

 The tiramisu and ricotta
cheesecake also remained on the list because they are and always will be crowd
pleasers.

But they’re easy. I’m looking
for something more complex to introduce to our tray, something that would
produce a wow factor.

Something like profiteroles.

There’s this amazing
restaurant in New York City that makes huge profiteroles. One time Drew and I
went
just
for dessert, and I’m
not like that.

But seriously, profiteroles
are the Food Therapy equivalent to Xanax. They’ll make you numb to your
problems. Which is exactly why I’m making them.

And they’re actually quite
simple to make.

 The dough is so easy, in fact,
that it can be done while making other desserts, which is exactly what I’m
doing this morning. As my eggs and ricotta are combining in the mixer, waiting
to be transformed into cheesecake, I drop one stick of unsalted butter into a
small saucepan. To that, I add one cup of water and let them simmer together
over a low flame.

Told you it was easy.

I switch back to the ricotta
cheesecake, which is ready to be poured into the spring form pan. When I get
back to the stove, the butter is all melted into the water, and the mixture is
just beginning to boil. I drop in a cup of flour and stir like mad, making sure
that all the flour cooks off.

It’s supposed to “sizzle” when
it’s done, so I stand above the stove and wait for it.

After a few minutes, I don’t
hear anything.

Maybe the flame is too low. I
turn it up just to speed up the process a bit.

While that’s getting hot, I
place the cheesecake into the oven and shut the door. Even though I forgot to
preheat, I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s a gas oven for God’s sake. How long can
it take to heat up?

Back at the stove, I see that
the bottom of my mixture is almost black.

Crap.

I didn’t hear any sizzling.

I look at the lump of dough
and decide that I can salvage it. I tip over the saucepot and the dough plops
out onto the worktable.

Oh yeah, I can totally fix
this. No problem.

I grab a knife and just cut
away the black parts until only about a third of the dough remains.

Who needs thirty-six
profiteroles anyway? Twenty-four is plenty. Or, um, twelve.

Plus, I can always make more
tomorrow.

 I lay the dough flat on a
plate to cool for a few minutes, while I check on the cheesecake.

It’s a carefully choreographed
dance, this baking business, but I love every minute of it. In the kitchen, I
feel so totally focused on what I’m doing that I don’t have
time
to think about Drew or my job.

What I really need is to talk
to Luce about all this, but she is
never
available anymore. She sleeps at our house about once a week, with the excuse
that she stays at her aunt’s the other nights.  I know she’s lying but what can
I say? I can’t
force
her to be my
friend.

“That looks good,” Lorenzo
says after opening the oven door and seeing my cheesecake. Any sort of culinary
praise from him is always welcome. If he thinks it looks good, it must.

Only, is it supposed to bubble
up like that?

 Maybe I should’ve preheated
the oven.

“Thanks,” I say looking at him.
He smiles, snaps his fingers and makes a motion like he’s throwing dice.

 I know exactly what he’s
talking about. “No.” I shake my head. “I don’t have any money.”

“Come on,” he replies. “Mario
and Dante are in. You can even invite Lucy to come along.”

The thought of a night out in
Atlantic City with my brothers and best friend is appealing, but I doubt she’d
go for it. Plus, I really don’t have the money to waste; especially now that I
will be unemployed come October
1.

 I’m not
worried
or anything but the other night
when I couldn’t sleep, I calculated all of my expenses for the year. The
wedding is adding a major debt to my finances. This whole Maid of Honor thing
is costing a lot.

“Don’t be a loser,” he snaps
and puts on his apron. I take the cake out of the oven and set it on a wire
rack to cool.  The bubbles have left large holes in the top, making it look
like the surface of the moon. Maybe when it’s cut it won’t look so bad.

Lorenzo keeps staring at me,
as if he’s waiting for me to agree.

“I’m going home to shower.”
The profiteroles will have to wait. Or better yet, maybe I should just throw
out the dough and try again tomorrow.           

 “Ok, but think about AC,” he
calls after me.

           
I’ll have to get
back to you on this one.

All night, every time I go
into the kitchen, Mario and Lorenzo make an Atlantic City reference. Even
though it’s a Tuesday, I know that we won’t be finished with work until at
least midnight, then we have to shower, and drive forty minutes to get there.
“It’ll be too late,” I protest on one of my trips in the kitchen.

“It’s open all night,” Lorenzo
replies. “Even Chucker is meeting us.”

Ok, it
would
be nice to see Chuck. I imagine the
scene. It would be like our first years of the restaurant, where the crew would
go gambling at least once a week after work. It didn’t matter if we got home at
7:00 the next morning. We’d sleep until 2:00, shower, and go back to work.

“We can even get scallion
pancakes for breakfast.” Mario’s eyes light up, referring to the Chinese food
we inevitably get at 5:00 a.m. before the long drive home.

“No,” I say firmly and leave
the kitchen.

Midway through the night I
pass Lucy in the waiters’ station. “Are you going to Atlantic City?” she asks.

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“I sort of want to go,” she
says with a smile.

This trip could be the perfect
opportunity to talk to Lucy. I start to think more seriously about going, when
the phone rings.

 It’s Mr. Lyndon, a regular
who comes in often with his wife. Unexpected guests showed up at his house and
he places a giant take-out order. I assure him that everything will be fine,
and that he can pick it up in one hour.

When I hand the order to
Lorenzo he makes the same throwing the dice gesture.

“Maybe.”  I smile.

By the time Mr. Lyndon comes
to pick up his take-out, we’ve calmed down for the night. All of the
reservations have been sat, and it looks like the flow of walk-ins has died
down a bit. I look at the clock; it’s only 9:45.

“Thank you so much,” he says
signing his credit card receipt. “You really saved us tonight. My son came in
with six of his friends and my wife barely had enough food to tide them over
until dinner.” He smiles and closes the check presenter. “We’ll see you during
the week.”

“Great. Thank you.”

When he leaves, I open the
check presenter to retrieve his credit card slip. I have to look at it twice to
make sure I’ve read it correctly.

 He’s left me a $100 tip on
his $97 check.

Did you hear that? One hundred
dollars!

It just goes to show how
appreciated I am.

“It’s a sign,” Mario says when
I run to the kitchen, waving the credit card slip. “We’re going to AC.”

And just like that, I’m in.

* * *

I bet you want to know what
happened, don’t you?

Well, let’s just say, someone
(aka Stella DiLucio) had a hot hand at the craps table.

And when we left the casino at
5:30 this morning, I was fifteen hundred dollars richer than before.

That’s right. Fifteen.
Hundred. Dollars.

I still can’t believe it.

But no matter how much money
you win, mornings are still rough. Especially when you go to bed when the sun
is coming up. Still, I have work to do. I’m a professional.

The only downside of last
night is that I didn’t really get the chance to talk to Lucy. I think about
making her a mug of coffee to wake her up, but decide against it.

As I sip my breakfast I wonder
when exactly I should execute the plan. I mean, I got lucky last night, maybe
I’m on a winning streak. Part of me wants to pick up the phone and dial Drew
right now, but the other, more cautious part of me decides against it.

To distract myself I start to
think of all the possible things I can buy with fifteen hundred dollars. I’m
usually very responsible with money (besides the time I bought that extra-large
Louie, but that’s an
investment
piece),
but since I’ve won this, I figure I can blow it on anything I want. I’ve been
wanting another Fendi for a while, and with fifteen hundred, I can get a nice
large tote. Or, I can treat myself to a day at the Borgata’s spa, complete with
an extra-long massage and relaxing facial. I’ve also been wanting a beautiful
leather jacket, and with this kind of money, I’m sure I can get a buttery soft
one. Pure luxury. I imagine myself walking through the streets of the Upper
West Side in the fall, when the weather is crisp enough to wear leather.