‘That was my grandad. Raymond Morelli. He’s dead now.’
‘And your dad?’
‘A professional narcissist. Still very much alive.’ The timer goes off on his phone and he pops the oven gloves on. I feel disappointed I can’t question him some more, but he’s back to the business of feeding people.
After grabbing a stainless-steel wheel, he quickly sections the golden brown, sizzling pizza. ‘Where I come from, this is more than food, it’s a religion. Good pizza leads to great conversation which leads to understanding and empathy and ultimately a more peaceful world. Have you noticed how cultural barriers fall away at Greek and Indian weddings where food is at the centre of everything? It’s a leveller. Everyone experiences their first bite in their own way, but the moment is shared, and remembered, even if the recipe is quickly forgotten. Which obviously mine won’t be.’
He lifts up a slice of pizza he sectioned off and takes a step towards me, eyes bright, teeth biting against his lower lip. Something tells me I’m not going to forget this in a hurry. He forms his mouth into an O, and I swear a big O is forming inside of me in response. He blows softly on the slice, nibbles a crumb from the end and holds the rest up to my mouth. It’s an intimate moment, with our eyes level and my insides melting like a baked Alaska. ‘Take a bite,’ he says softly, like an invitation to go to bed. I can almost feel my pupils dilate. My heart beats and skitters. I open my mouth. He touches my elbow and I lean in. And burn my tongue on the cheese. Grabbing a glass from the draining board, I flick the tap on. Water gushes out, hits a breakfast bowl and splatters over my front. Surprised, I drop the glass and it shatters. Reaching for it, I slice my finger on a sharp piece that’s broken off.
‘Ouch!’ I lift my finger to suck the blood while Joe makes a tourniquet out of kitchen roll before disappearing into the bedroom. When he returns with a first aid kit, he takes one look at the blood pooling around my finger and bursts out laughing. ‘Whatever party you go to, you always end up looking like Carrie.’
I cast my eyes to the floor. ‘I just want to be the Prom Queen. Is that too much to ask?’
He takes the backing from a plaster and quickly pushes it round my finger. ‘You know you don’t always need to go this far to get my attention?’
The savouries are demolished without further incident. ‘I want you to guess the secret feature in the dough,’ he says as we tuck into the chocolate pizza.
‘Ooh, don’t tell me … it’s something to do with the water.’
He stops dead. ‘How on earth …’
‘My client goes on about it.’
He licks two fingers and dives back into dessert. ‘Some people think it’s a myth that New York water is special. But it contains a unique balance of minerals that you don’t get anywhere else. I have a deal lined up with a company in New Jersey to bring it across when I eventually get going with the restaurant. Remind me to make two versions for you sometime with different water, to see if you can spot the difference. I’m confident you will. But it’s not just that marking good pizza out from bad. It’s about the length of time you prove the dough for and the quality of the ingredients. I plan to import the mozzarella from a guy I know in Naples. Ever been?’
I shake my head. ‘I’ve never been anywhere.’
‘It’s an incredible city. Quite brooding, particularly off-season. You can totally lose yourself in those dark, graffiti-filled streets. The first wood-fired pizza was made there. But my heart really belongs to the New York pizza. It’s all about the sharing. My mom often treated me to a regular slicefrom a street food van as a kid.Or we’d go to one of the traditional pizzerias in Brooklyn or Queens. I can tell you right now you’d never utter the word “margherita” and heaven help if you dared ask for toppings like pineapple or sweetcorn. My pizzeria will produce one thing and do it well. Although I might sneak gelato onto the menu. That’s another passion of mine.’
‘While we’re talking authentic pizza I want to chat with you about some potential opportunities. My life-coaching client is having a fiftieth birthday. I thought it would be a nice surprise for him if we ran a late-night pizza den from his back garden.’
‘Sounds great. Count me in if the date works for us both.’
‘It’s a week on Saturday. I’m sure he’d be really excited if you could produce some gelato as well.’ I christen my client Tony Soprano to keep client confidentiality, which raises a smile from Joe, and I brief him about the progress Vince and I have made at pulling together a showbiz party at short notice.
‘Tony didn’t want it in a club as he’s been going through a bad time lately and doesn’t want paparazzi or bouncers. So, we’re going to transform his house into a James Bond casino.’ He looks impressed as I brief him about the champagne tower and martini cocktails and laughs as I describe what will happen after the toast.
Checking my finger is still intact, he puts the coffee pot on the hob. ‘I’ve hidden both the salt and the scissors so neither of us can do any more damage,’ he says, touching me lightly on the waist. ‘You don’t have to perch on the counter all lunchtime you know. Why don’t you sit over there, if you can handle uncomfortable sofa springs.’
As highlighted, the sofa is old and saggy with a mobile radiator pulled close. He joins me, and I tell him about Kai’s new restaurant and the opening for a temporary chef. He looks thoughtful and says he’ll think on it.
‘So, tell me more about the pizza and ice cream for Tony’s party. What kind of flavours can we expect?’
His face becomes stern, and he asks me to repeat my question. Then he mocks outrage as he gives me a lecture on the differences between ice cream and gelato and how insulted an artisan maker would be if people confused the two. As he ribs me for the mistake, he pulls his legs up beside him. I inspect the cut of the denim while imagining him kneeling over me and wrapping me in an embrace.
‘You know what I do to anyone who asks me for ice cream?’
‘Sorry?’ I’m distracted by his Adam’s apple, which moves as he swallows. My gaze roams to his generous mouth where a smear of melted caramel lingers on his bottom lip. I have a sudden urge to lick it off. And perhaps he’s having similar thoughts as his hand lands on my waist before moving to my hips. His touch is firm and feels good. Until his fingers dig into me.
‘I’m afraid sorry is not good enough.’
‘Hey, geroff!’ It’s like a hug from the turkey but targeted at my stomach. As I push him away, a laugh bursts from me. ‘What wasthat?’ I go to grab his hands, but he’s agile, and one step ahead of me. He twists them back around. And then his fingers are everywhere, scrunching into my side, nibbling at my waist, seizing the flesh under my arms. He’s tickling me?
By the time I work out what he’s doing, he’s mastered the art of it. I try to play catch up in a brief moment of relief, but I’m not quick enough and I don’t know what I’m doing. And he’s off again, making me wriggle and giggle as he targets fresh parts of my body. He finally stops and gives me a victory grin. ‘Ready to backtrack?’
I gurgle a laugh. ‘Never. It’s all just Mr Whippy to me.’
‘Take that back!’
