Don’t make the same mistake twice. You can’t afford it.
I turn the handle and go.
Chapter Fifteen
Bianca
Rolando, the head of house, meets me at the elevator with a polite half–smile and a “Good morning, Chef.”
He’s mid-fifties, pressed shirt, quiet shoes, a way of standing that says he sees everything and comments on nothing.
The doors open straight into the penthouse, and I’m met with dark oak floors, matte, not glossy. Big panes of glass from floor to ceiling pulling the skyline right into the room.
Nothing cluttered. Nothing staged. There’s art, but not loud. Black-and-white photos on one wall.
One of family, old Atlantic City, a young man and woman in a simple frame. No trophies. Nothing ostentatious. The couches and chairs are deep and plain, black leather that you’d sink into. A single Persian rug, worn soft.
There’s a humidor the size of a nightstand and, surprisingly, a piano in the corner. Shelves with books that have been opened, probably read, not just for display. It smells like cedar, clean linen, coffee. Money everywhere, but nothing begging you to look.
Ronaldo leads me down the hall and into the kitchen.
I stop dead at the entrance.
It’s a cook’s dream, not a showroom. Six-burner gas range with heavy grates, center French top, plus an induction set into the counter for finesses. Double wall ovens with clean glass and calibrated temps taped small on the inside edge. A thick walnut island runs the length of the room with two refrigerated drawers on the working side and knee space on the other so you can sit and prep for hours. Overhead: a rail with carbon-steel pans seasoned to black, lids matched to size.
I walk through, familiarizing myself with anything and everything, my roll of knives forgotten on the counter.
Knives live in a shallow drawer on felt, blades sheathed, each slot labeled in tidy print. Another drawer is a spice library—fresh, dated, ground small-batch, whole seeds in the back—alphabetized, because of course it is. There’s a proofing drawer, a built-in burr grinder next to a La Marzocco that runs like a well-kept car, and a filtered water tap that throws cold and hot on demand.
A small chamber vacuum sealer sits beside a circulator. The fridge is tall and paneled to match the cabinets; the walk-in equivalent is a glass-front column tucked in the butler’s pantry: labeled cambros, nothing a mystery.
It’s better than Luca’s. Newer, more deliberate. Whoever designed it talked to a chef and listened.
And then the charm: a line of living herbs in a trough under the window—basil, thyme, flat parsley, chives—grow light on a timer; a ceramic crock of wooden spoons worn smooth; an old-timey radio on the shelf with something classical floating out of the speakers. The window over the secondary sink looks straight out to water and early light.
“I thought you’d approve,” Rolando says, maybe a hint of pride coloring his voice. “Pantry’s through here.”
He takes me through and shows me everything. Then steps out with a small nod and leaves me to it.
The kitchen is mine.
I set my knife roll on the island, unbuckle, and lay steel and edge in a row. Chef’s, petty, boning, offset, fish spatula, tweezers, favorite spoon. I like the feel of them on this counter. They look like they belong.
It’s not my main set, just the one I kept at Nonna’s. My main set is back in Italy, and I’m itching to have it.
Before starting, I step over to the gorgeous espresso machine. The La Marzocco sits beautiful and shiny under the morning sun, enticing me with its gleam.
I grind fresh and knock the portafilter level. The machine buzzes low when I lock it in. First pull goes to the sink—season the group head, wake the steel—second pull is mine. Crema right, tiger striping, thirty seconds. I sip. Bitter, at first, then round. Delicious.
I set the cup near the window and get to work.
Friday’s menu is open in my head. He said he’d get everything. I verify because that’s my nature. I flip open my notebook and look at the breakfast plan I sent on Friday.
Fridge first. Eggs dated two days ago. Ricotta sweet and loose. Whole-milk yogurt, plain. European butter. Pancetta, not sliced—good. Tomatoes on the counter, warm, not murdered in the cold. Lemons thin-skinned. Herbs alive. Bread crinkles lightly when I press the crust.
Dry pantry: honey (wildflower and chestnut), good olive oils, a variety of vinegars. Salt bins labeled by grain.
I pull what I need to make the fruit plate; yogurt with honey and toasted nuts, soft scramble with chives, pancetta and roasted tomatoes, sourdough toast, ricotta with olive oil and crackled pepper, optional smoked salmon with lemon and capers, and a small frittata if he’d like.
