“No one thinks the same way they did as a teenager,” says Leo. “Not really.”
“I hated it,” I say again, thinking of my father.
“Well, you don’t hate it now,” he says, laughing.
I’m a little quiet on the walk back, thinking of Dad and Mum and how tastes and feelings and perspectives grow and change. Leo is lively and excited by our progress and wants to agree on the key ingredient so we can start to narrow down the dishes.
“It’s not almonds, is it?” I say, grinning.
Leo’s lip curls slightly. “No,” he says, clearing his throat.
“Oranges?” We both say it in unison.
“Oranges,” he confirms, nodding. “The blood orange is so unique. They even have a festival each year, right here in the city.”
“It’s the right ingredient,” I reply, meeting his eyes. “Orange granita.Orange zest in those delicious little squid balls from the market.”
“And that orange cake,” he says.
“Thecake!” I reply.
“That orange and fennel salad with the anchovies?”
“Thatsalad. Salty and sweet and with those plump black olives,” I say, moaning.
“And oil,” he says.
“And crusty bread,” I add, ducking into the shadow of a tall building.
“Have we had a breakthrough?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, nodding, “I supposed we have.”
“We need to celebrate,” he says.
“Okay, but can we celebrate with gelato? I need a day off the wine.”
“You have room for gelato? You know we have dinner tonight,” he says, laughing.
“I have room,” I protest.
“Let’s go to Rocco’s restaurant.”
“Does Rocco have gelato?” I ask, frowning.
“Does Rocco have gelato?” he says, laughing. “Where do you think your dad got his famous recipe from?”
12
ROCCO IS PREPPINGfor dinner and beams when he sees us, calling us back toward the kitchen. The restaurant is dark and cool, though there are still a few lunch customers sitting on the ends of bottles of wine, chattering lazily. A child lies on the ground with a coloring book and a jar of pencils. I feel a strong sense of nostalgia in these dark walls; it is so familiar, from the little painting of the boat on the wall to the sound of the chairs scraping across the floor.
“We fancied a gelato,” says Leo.
“Bene, bene,” Rocco says, grinning. “Stracciatella is the best.” When Dad trained here, long ago, he lived a few doors down with my nonna and nonno, who owned a fishing charter business. In many ways, he grew up here and I see its influence on him. In many ways, it feels like Nicky’s used to feel to me. A home away from home.
I lean against the wall, staring at the huge corkboard opposite, covered in photos. Dad had one like this too, and I wonder if it’s still there. If there are photos of me still pinned to it.
I scan the images: fading photos, Polaroids and prints, decades of happy,sun-burnished customers of all ages holding their gelato, grinning. And then my eyes catch on one. It’s the two-tone trunks, red on one side, blue on the other, that draw me in. I know those trunks. The image’s colors are a little washed out, but the picture is crystal clear. I feel a strong wave of sensory memory fill me as I walk slowly toward it, peering in closer.Dad. Dad and his handlebar mustache, his wide smile. Dad looking handsome and happy, with me on his hip, holding out an ice cream. He is looking at me like he just won an Oscar.
