“Shit. I haven’t finished explaining the catch,” I say, following her gaze, and we all turn to get a better look back at the restaurant.
“He’s a catch, all right,” says Ginny, swooning at Leo.
“The thing is,” I say, putting a hand on both of their arms as we peer around the van like a trio of comedy government spies. “Because I’m not a chef myself, and can’t really do the recipe part of the book...” I take a deep breath and point across to Leo, who is about to head back inside Nicky’s and begin the evening shift. “Part of the deal is that the hot chef over there—Leo Ricci—he has to come and do it with me.”
“You have to spend a month in Italy withhim?”
“My nemesis,” I say.
2
IFEEL LIKE THISis illegal. Or it should be. Like I’m breaking the law just standing here. And if not illegal, it certainly feels immoral to be holding the keys to my father’s restaurant.
Myrestaurant.
My heart has kicked up and my palms are sweaty. It’s been a week since I heard the news from the estate attorney, but it’s barely sunk in. And so here I am, at almost 1 a.m., the full legal owner and yet too afraid to step in. Not just afraid, if I’m honest:unworthy.
I gaze up at the flickering neon sign, irritated to see theNbarely glows, making the name of the restaurant appear to read ICKY’S. Which—and I cannot stress this enough—is a terrible name for a place where anyone might want to eat food.
“Here we go,” I say under my breath.
And then I slide in the key.
It’s dark inside, but the familiar smell of garlicky earthiness with a nose-tingling hit of lemony floor cleaner hits me like a punch to the nose. Smell is the most visceral of senses, and I am transported back in time. I catch a glimpse of my mother twisting her hair into a bun.I hear flashes of my father shouting“Order up!”while he winks at her. Rowdy, drunken laughter at table 5. Glasses clinking. Later, tempers flaring between my parents over a forgotten order. Mum crying on the back steps after a particularly grueling shift. I breathe through the memories, which flash before me like an old photo carousel, until I can ground myself here in the present.
“Hello?” I say, the sound echoing into darkness. But there is no reply.
I reach, instinctively fumbling for the light switch. But then I stop myself, allowing my eyes to adjust and the yellow-orange light of the streetlamps outside to guide me. Better to keep on the down-low.
I move through the tables, sliding my body left and right, gently touching the plastic lamination on the red-and-white cloths covering the chipped Formica.The same tables. I touch the chrome frame of one of the chairs with its red-leather cushioned seat.The same chairs. I look ahead to the bar, its long oak-topped counter with the rounded carved edging, and I place both hands on the cool wood, resting my bum against one of the fixed round stools that sit underneath.
I feel an ache in my heart as I picture my father there behind the bar. I lean into the memory as though it were yesterday.
Afternoon light fills the restaurant.
Dad has thick brown hair, which always looks a bit wet from the cream he uses in it. He is handsome, and very expressive—a twinkle in his big brown eyes and a wide, welcoming smile. He loves sun, shown in fine lines everywhere on his face, but he looks jolly with it, rather than weathered. He wears the same thing to every shift: black suit pants and a black chef’s jacket.
The memory is so real, I hear him.
“Up you get, sweetheart,” my dad says as he pats the bar.
I scramble up. I must be nine years old, the bar still too tall for me to peer over without climbing onto one of those stools.
Dad is watching Jamie Oliver on the TV behind the bar, and he’s teaching me how to make tortellini.
“It’s calledThe Naked Chef. I’m checking out the competition.”
Dad always wanted to be like those TV chefs, but Jamie Oliver wound him up because he was successful so young.
“Though look at him using mascarpone. He’s not even Italian.”
“He trained at the River Café and that’s Italian food.”My mother.
I remember her smoothing her spaghetti-strap dress and fixing an apron around her middle. I thought Mum was the most beautiful woman in the world. But in this memory, I see a jittery anxiety I didn’t recognize back then.
Mum was trying to keep the restaurant viable because all their money was tied up in it, and Dad never took her concerns seriously. I don’t want to pretend Dad was some kind of creative airhead, or that Mum was some all-business robot, but it was clear where their strengths lay: Dad was the cook and Mum was the coin.
Dad shows me how to fill and fold tortellini, but my young fingers are clumsy and the results are misshapen.
