The Food of Love (22 page)

unfulfilled, if his love for Laura was unreciprocated and unconsummated, perhaps that only gave his dishes an extra piquancy; a

tantalising sense of urgency mixed with regret. ‘Eat me now,’ they seemed to whisper; ‘seize me quickly. For the fruit is only ripe for a day, the meat only tender for a moment. All things must pass;

take your pleasures while you can.’

Tommaso had taught Marie everything he knew about waiting

tables: how to balance trays piled high with hot dishes on one

hand; how to pour wine; how to stage-manage the theatre of

serving each table so that the customers knew, even before they

tasted it, that this was serious food, worriiy of respect. Her uniform, though, had been her own idea: a tight black blouse tucked

into a long white bistro apron, so that from the front she looked as if she was wearing traditional waiters’ garb; not until she turned around did you catch a glimpse of the extremely short skirt underneath.

Inevitably, this only added to the heady atmosphere of II

Cuoco. The nature of Bruno’s cooking meant that by the third or

fourth course diners often found themselves experiencing sharp

pangs of another appetite. Customers who were unaccompanied

by loved ones - and even some of those who were - sometimes

found their gaze wandering towards the beautiful raven-haired

Roman girl with the flashing eyes, and more than once she had to discourage the attentions of some lovestruck admirer. Being a

Roman girl, however, this was second nature to her, and anyone

who overstepped the mark soon retreated, his cheeks and ears

burning from a volley of abuse.

Tommaso, meanwhile, still had very little to do. Marie,

although rushed off her feet, was so competent that front-of

house ran perfectly. In the kitchen he could help Bruno a little, but once service got under way his friend functioned on some

kind of mystical autopilot, intuitively juggling a dozen different orders at once, and he didn’t really want any assistance from an amateur. The highlight of Tommaso’s evening, therefore, was his

nightly tour of the customers’ tables. The adulation he received on these occasions was like rain to a thirsty plant, and he needed

little encouragement to pull up a chair and share a distillato or a glass of wine with his adoring public.

It was on one such tour that the Incident Of The Cigar

occurred. Tommaso had accepted a sambuca - an anise-flavoured

liqueur, traditionally ignited before being drunk - from two young women, who were telling him in some detail how brilliant he was, when the smoke from a neighbouring diner’s cigar began drifting

in their direction.

Tommaso wafted it away. Then he glanced over at the smoker

and saw that his companion was still eating. He leaned over and

said, quite mildly, ‘I think perhaps your friend would be able to appreciate my chestnut mousse better if it didn’t taste of your

cigar smoke.’

The man regarded Tommaso with a weary sneer. ”Che cazzo

stai dicendo? What’s this crap you’re talking?’

‘I’m talking, sir, about your cigar, which would perhaps be

more appropriate when the other diners have finished their meals.’

A young woman at another table said, ‘He’s been smoking

those things all evening.’

A pained expression crossed Tommaso’s face. ‘That’s a little

inconsiderate of you, my friend.’

iVaJfanculo a lei, e a sua soretaj the smoker said, gesturing at Marie, who was walking past.

Tommaso calmly took the cigar and doused it in the man’s

wine glass. ‘She’s not my sister,’ he said. ‘And she doesn’t.’

The smoker stared at Tommaso for a moment, his eyes bulging.

Tommaso picked up his sambuca. As the man angrily pushed

back his chair, his fist raised, Tommaso poured the burning liquid down his trousers.

‘Marie, a glass of water for the gentleman,’ he said. ‘He appears to have set himself alight.’

The applause around the room was deafening.

That afternoon, Bruno and Tommaso and Marie had a visitor.

He was polite and businesslike, and said that he was calling to

inspect the restaurant on behalf of some interested investors.

Marie, who had been expecting such a visit, made the polite gentleman an espresso and offered to show him the accounts, an offer

the gentleman declined with a slight smile. He would, he said,

much rather see the reservations book. Accounts, he explained,

particularly accounts prepared for the authorities, could sometimes be overly pessimistic. In his experience, a reservations book

was a rather better guide to the health or otherwise of a restaurant.

He glanced through the book, nodding approvingly. ‘So,’ he

said at length, ‘you are taking—’ And he named a figure that to Marie’s amazement was accurate to within a few euros.

‘Which, after costs, is leaving you with a net margin of—’ he

added, almost as an afterthought. Again, Marie was amazed at his accuracy.

‘We will take four per cent,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Of the gross, that is. We’ll charge it as a mark-up on costs, though, so it’s effectively tax-deductible. You’ll barely notice it on the bottom line.

Now, is there anything you need?’

Marie thought about it. ‘We could do with a permit to put

tables outside, on the pavement, in summer,’ she said. ‘We’ve

applied, but nothing’s happened.’

‘Consider it done. Is that all?’

‘One of the neighbours has been complaining about the refuse

out the back.’

‘I’ll get it collected twice a week then. Nothing else?’

‘And the chef has been having difficulty tracking down wild

seabass.’

‘I’ll tell my friend at the wholesalers to put you down for some.’

The polite gentleman drained his espresso, stood up and offered

Marie his hand. ‘A pleasure doing business with you. I shall come to eat here myself, one day very soon. And if you need anything, anything at all, just speak to Franco, the one who brings your vegetables.

He knows how to reach us.’ He tapped his nose. ‘But no

need to mention this arrangement to Dr Ferrara, you understand?’

It was, they all agreed later, a remarkably good service for the price, certainly much better than anything they got in return for their income tax.

‘Uno ristretto, Gennaro, per favored Tommaso said wearily next

morning. ‘No, better make that two.’

‘Two?’ Gennaro shook his head. ‘Nobody drinks two ristretti.”

‘Believe me, I can drink two.’ Tommaso went and sat down, leaning his head on his hands. ‘And even then I may go back to sleep.’

‘You want them there, at the table?’ Gennaro said eagerly,

dollar signs appearing in his eyes.

‘Give him a break, Gennaro.’ Bruno sat down next to his

friend. ‘What’s up, Tommaso?’

‘It’s Laura. She’s wearing me out.’

Bruno flinched. If Laura was his girlfriend he wouldn’t want to

sleep much either. Tommaso, not noticing, continued in a low

voice, ‘She’s just a bit - well, strange.’

‘In what way?’

‘She’s obsessed with food.’

Bruno knew he ought not to have this conversation, but he

couldn’t help himself. ‘Well - so am I, for that matter.’

‘Yes, but this is in a weird way.’ A noise like pistons hammering on a steel plate came from Gennaro’s Gaggia as the vast industrial pump he had fitted to it pounded water into a space many times

smaller than nature had ever intended. It sounded rather like a

very old steam train going up a steep hill, and like an old steam train there was a ghastly moment when one thought it might not

make it after all. The hammering got slower and slower, and more and more laboured, until at last, with a shrill protesting shriek of escaping pressure, water blasted into the packed coffee grounds.

When this cacophony of groans, gusts, wheezing pipes and juddering joints finally subsided, Gennaro carried two tiny thimbles of ristretti over to the table.

‘Tell you what - drink them both and I’ll give you your next

one on the house,’ he joked.

Tommaso drained one thimble in a single gulp, and paused

only briefly before following it with the second. ‘As soon as you like, Gennaro.’

‘Are you kidding? It’ll kill you. I meant, next time you’re in.’

‘Now is good.’

Shaking his head at the folly of the young, Gennaro retreated

behind his counter.

‘Weird how?’ Bruno wanted to know.

Tommaso leaned across the table and lowered his voice. ‘Well,

last night she wanted me to baste her with olive oil and rosemary and then turn her slowly on my spit.’

Bruno made a face. ‘Rosemary?’

‘I told you she was odd.’

‘Very. Marjoram would be much better.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. So the problem is what, exactly?’

‘Now she wants me to think up some other recipe ideas, as she

calls it.’ He lowered his voice even further. ‘Between you and me, she’s hard work sometimes.’

Bruno barely heard the last part. His imagination was racing. ‘I would cover her with currants and dust her with icing sugar.’ He blushed. Had he said that out loud? He was thinking of that

damned wedding cake again. ‘I mean, that’s one suggestion. Or

you could—’

‘Hang on, let me write some of these down,’ Tommaso said,

pulling out a pen.

Gennaro brought over a third thimble. ‘It’s the strongest yet,’

he warned. “I just increased the pressure.’ Tommaso tossed it

down his throat with barely a glance.

By the time they got to the restaurant Tommaso, his brain

sizzling, was bug-eyed and jumping around as if on springs. When the phone rang he snatched it up and yelled ”Pronto’ into the

receiver like a madman. ‘You want a what? A reservation? Why?

Who are you?’ There was a pause while he listened. ‘What’s wrong with your voice?’ he demanded. ‘A speech impediment? Well, we

don’t want anyone with a speech impediment eating here.

Dentures? You have dentures* I am Tommaso Massi. How can you

possibly appreciate my cooking with dentures? Yes, go to hell.’ He slammed down the handset and said cheerfully, ‘From now on,

Marie, no smokers and no dentures. What?’

Bruno and Marie were staring at him open-mouthed.

‘For a moment there,’ Bruno said gently, ‘you sounded just like

Alain Dufrais.’

‘Oh.’ Tommaso looked crestfallen. ‘Of course. Sorry. I must

have drunk too much of that damn coffee.’

Tommaso liked to watch Marie working. He liked the way she had

to go up on tiptoe to squeeze her ample bottom through the

gaps between chairs; the fluidity of her bosom when she leaned

down to clear a table. Occasionally he tried to flirt with her, but even though he employed all his considerable charm, she maintained a

professional detachment. Tommaso wasn’t used to this. He found

himself thinking about her wistfully. Somehow he knew that Marie wouldn’t be into having pitted olives skewered on her nipples, or playing strange games with meringue mixture.

Marie kept him in order, too. When, on a sudden whim,

Tommaso announced that from now on the dining room was

going to be kept completely dark, so that everyone could concentrate better on what was going into their mouths, it was Marie

who took him aside and said, firstly, if you do that how am I supposed to see who I’m serving? And secondly, if you don’t stop

behaving like an arrogant prick I’m going to put this fork up your nose in front of the whole restaurant.

They were clearing up one evening, after all the customers had

gone, when Marie said suddenly, “I think you’d better tell me

what the deal is here.’

‘Deal?’ Tommaso said innocently.

‘You’re supposed to be the chef, but he does all the cooking.’

She pointed at Bruno. ‘And don’t tell me you came up with the

recipes and he’s just doing what you’ve shown him, because I

know that isn’t true.’

‘Ah,’ Tommaso said. He paused. ‘You see, there was a girl,

and she wanted to go out with someone who could cook, and I

wanted to go out with her, so I told her I could. Cook, that is.

And I couldn’t. But Bruno could, and - and - it just all started from there,’ he said helplessly.

‘So you’ve started a restaurant because you didn’t want to tell

a girl you can’t cook?’ Marie said in disbelief.

‘Urn, yes, I suppose so.’ Hearing it put like that, Tommaso

experienced a feeling he got more and more these days - a feeling that he couldn’t quite work out how or why things had got as

complicated as they had. ‘You see, if she thinks I’m only a waiter, she’ll probably dump me.’

‘And what’s wrong with being a waiter?’ Marie wanted to

know, tapping her foot dangerously.

‘Oh, nothing,’ he assured her. There was something about

Marie that made him not want to argue with her.

‘That’s the stupidest story I ever heard,’ Marie decided.

‘It’s pretty stupid, yes,’ Tommaso agreed.

‘So when are you going to tell her the truth?’

‘Soon,’ he said. A thought was forming in his mind. If Laura

found out the truth, she would dump him. Life would go back to

the way it had been before, and actually Tommaso wasn’t averse to that at all.

Ever since Bruno had started creating the menu for II Cuoco, he

had been struggling with the impossibility of creating the dish he had spoken of to Tommaso that first night, walking back from

Templi, when the two of them had discussed the difference

between aphrodisiacs and the food of love itself.

Bruno remembered very well what he had said on that occasion: