“I’m gonna head upstairs and hit the keyboard with my head. What time will we start?”
“Six?” he says, emerging from the kitchen holding a coffee and side-eyeing the enormous pile of tomatoes with a grin.
“I also got cherries. See you in a few hours?” I say, and he nods confidently.
“I’ll be ready.”
“WE WOULD ONLYhave a couple of in-season starters,” Leo says, laying a plate of fried courgette flower and goat’s cheese in front of me. “The tempura is more like the Japanese style, superlight. The honey would be field honey, to keep with the spring and summer theme.”
He taps the edge of the plate. The presentation is simple and elegant, and it looks delicious.
“I love it,” I say. “Although I have to admit, I was expecting something a bit more ostentatious.”
“You’re missing the micro herbs and reduced honey foam after all, Olive?” he says, sitting opposite me, folding his arms, tea towel tossed over his shoulder. “As you know, Icanbe restrained when I need to be.”
I raise a suggestive eyebrow, and he laughs at me. It’s too easy to fall into this flirtatious banter with him, but I can’t. I mustn’t.
“So, you say in the proposal you would do this alongside an ever-changing antipasti platter. One vegan, one meat. And then just the six pasta mains?”
“Yes. And I think we should pull a few from original dishes from Nicky’s. The famous mushroom tortellini, for example,” he says, pointing at me.
“It’s not still on the menu, is it?” I say, thinking back to me and Dad rolling our little parcels all those years ago.
“It sure is. Still called Olive’s tortellini too,” he says.
“Oh man.” I shake my head, laughing, while I dive my fork into the courgette and my mouth explodes with the sweet honey and the salty cheese.
Leo serves wine from the cellar, an incredibly savory Monteraponi with notes of saffron and capers. Then he brings out a rustic bowl of tomato soup.
“You know, I think this dish works well for the cookbook, as well as a potential dish for Nicky’s,” he says, sliding it in front of me. “It ticks all your boxes, I think.”
“What are my boxes?” I ask, tipping my head to the side.
“Authentic, inexpensive, and unfussy,” he says.
I nod. It’s true. Thosearemy boxes. “Tomatoes, leftover bread, good olive oil, garlic,” I say.Delicious.
“What do you think?” says Leo as he tips a little more wine into my glass.
“I can’t find much to critique,” I say, smirking, as I spoon mouthfuls of the soup.
“That was actually my mamma’s recipe,” he says. “Using Chiara’s heritage tomatoes. But we can do a really low price point on that.”
“Well then. Good for Nicky’s and straight into the cookbook,” I say. “Like I said the other day, I do miss something fresh on the menu. A salad or some simple beans. Just a couple of options.”
“I agree,” he says, emerging from the kitchen with a very basic tomato salad. Not a panzanella, just fresh-cut tomatoes—and all the shapes and colors from green through to yellow and red. Torn basil and a simple dressing of oil and balsamic. A few sprinkled crushed, roasted hazelnuts and pine nuts finish off the dish.
He’s thinking, adapting, listening to me.
“You didn’t do any kind of budget for the renovations,” I say, as I fish the last slice of tomato from the dish.
“I have to hold my hands up and say I don’t know enough about that,” he says. “Those ideas are just ideas.”
“Right.” I think, wondering about Ginny’s capacity to take a look for me. If ever there was a time to have an interior architect as a friend, it’s now.
“Cacio e pepe,” Leo explains, as he brings out one of the pasta dishes. “Another low price point, and a dish we can expand with fresh truffles when the season allows. The dish is spun into a perfect round, finished with large wide flakes of shaved Parmesan.”
“I like this presentation,” I say, taking a mouthful of the pasta. “God, this is incredible. How did you get such a deep peppery flavor into the pasta?”
