Chapter Two
“Torre, you slug. You’re not still in bed, are you? What’s shakin’?”
I shifted the phone to my other ear and rolled over. Another restless night, but it was hard to learn to sleep alone after living with someone for two years.
“Nothing.” I pushed the hair out of my face and eyes and let out a huge yawn.
“I need a favor.” My brother asking me straight up was unusual. He prided himself in making it on his own, and with his restaurant, he tried not to look to me, with all my connections in the food industry, to help him.
“Anything, you know that.” I sat up, the comforter falling around me.
“Rain’s sick, and I’m down a server. We’re full up with reservations, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind—”
“You want me to wait tables?” Laughter boomed out across the room. “And here I thought it was for advice, or you wanted me to call some of my foodie blogger friends to come by and pump you up on social media.”
“You know I appreciate it, but you also know I have to prove to myself that it’s not you making me a success. It’s me and my food.”
The love I had for my brother swelled in my chest. “I know, Mikey. And yeah. I’ll help you tonight. I’ve got no problem if you want me to wait tables, clean them, or wash dishes. Anything for you.”
“You’re the best. Come by around four, and I’ll run the specials by you.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I bounced out of bed, my melancholy forgotten.
“By the way”—Mikey snorted—“I saw that article on your blog, where you ripped into that Martinelli. What a prick.”
“According to what I’ve read in his reviews, he is. Oh, he’s usually nice enough when he mentions the servers, but he’s brutal when he doesn’t like the food. And there’s no excuse for that. You don’t have to be mean writing a review. He delights in it, though, like it gives him pleasure.”
“Let’s hope he never comes to Mangia. I swear if I got a crap review from him, I might have to look him up and show him a little Brooklyn justice. Know what I mean?”
“Don’t be stupid. One bad review doesn’t make or break a restaurant. Besides, he doesn’t eat at or review the types of places we like. Real family places with homemade comfort food handed down generation to generation.”
“Yeah. I bet he’s never been to Brooklyn.”
As with almost all food critics, they remained frustratingly anonymous. No social media or pictures were to be found anywhere, and they guarded their privacy strictly. I’d found one blurry, old photo of Martinelli from over twenty years earlier, but I had nothing to compare it to, so I couldn’t be sure if that was even the right person. His bio gave out little information except that he was born in New York and was around forty. His reviews, while always harsh, had turned more and more cutting, but it was only in the past two years that I’d used my position to point out his rudeness.
He ignored my existence aside from one mention in anUltimatearticle, where he was quoted as callingNew York for Real New Yorkersa “good-for-nothing, talentless rag of a blog.”
“Considering all he reviews are upper-echelon restaurants or the ones with the inside buzz, owned by celebrities or chefs, you’re probably right, although we both know Brooklyn has become somewhat of a foodie scene.”
“Yeah,” Mike said, sounding grumpy. “But all I hear about is Williamsburg and Greenpoint and Bushwick. Even Gowanus gets the buzz now. Smith Street used to be the hot spot. Not so much anymore.”
“Look. You don’t need that. What you want is a solid following of neighborhood people, and you’re growing that. Your food is high quality, and you have a unique twist on recipes. It’s been only a year. Give it time. I’m hearing good things.”
It was hard running a food blog when your family was involved with the business but on the opposite side of the page. It was as if I were a defense lawyer and Mike a prosecutor.
“You do?”
I smiled at the hopeful note in his voice. “I do. You know I wouldn’t lie. Now let me get up and shower and do some stuff before I have to come in and save your ass with my superior waiting skills. That’s what you get for hiring someone named Rain.”
“Shut up. He’s really sick. Val and Mom love him, and you know they’re the best judges of character. If my wife and my mother say he’s okay, that’s good enough for me. And waiting skills?” He snorted. “Dude, you spill more than you serve. Get the fuck outta here.”
“All right, all right. I’ll see you around four.”
“Later.”
Talking to my brother always made me feel good. When Pete dumped me, Mike showed up with two six-packs of beer, a tray of homemade lasagna, and a sinfully rich tiramisu. He got me drunk off my ass, and I gained five pounds in one week. Mike had never liked Pete; he thought him an uptight pretty boy who’d hoped my connections in the magazine industry would help him with his own career as a travel blogger. When that never came to pass, Pete moved on to other men, and when I discovered his cheating, he packed up his stuff and moved out.
I bounced out of bed, showered and dressed, then sat down to check my email. Cup of coffee in hand, I scrolled through the latest edition ofNew York for Real New Yorkers, still amazed; the little idea I’d had in my journalism class in college—to have a blog dedicated to people who couldn’t afford multimillion-dollar apartments or spend a week’s salary on a night out—had taken off. The website had over half a million hits a month and was still growing. Advertisers were snapping up yearly spots.
