I smiled. Sofia's demands for kitchen help were her way of saying she wanted company. I'd done this a hundred times over the past three years. Grated cheese, chopped garlic, rolled out pasta dough while she told stories about the old country.
The main house smelled like heaven. Garlic and the rich, salty aroma of crisping guanciale filled the air. Sofia stood at her vintage stove, watching her large pot of water as if daring it to boil over.
"Bambino," she said without turning around. "The Pecorino. You know where it is."
I grabbed the wedge of cheese from the fridge and the grater from the drawer. Sofia was particular about her carbonara, insisting on real Pecorino Romano, not that pre-grated junk from the supermarket. The eggs sat on the counter next to a small bowl of black peppercorns.
"Perfect timing," she said, using tongs to flip the thick slices of guanciale in her cast-iron pan. The pork was crisping up, its fat rendering into liquid gold. "The water's almost ready."
I grated cheese while Sofia cracked eggs one by one over a small bowl, letting the whites fall through her fingers before dropping the yolks into her largest mixing bowl. She then whisked them with the grated Pecorino and freshly cracked black pepper until the mixture turned pale yellow.
"Now tell me about this girl," she said, not looking up from her work.
"Her name's Nadia. She runs Coogan's Catering."
"I know who she is," Sofia said, using a slotted spoon to transfer the crispy guanciale to a plate lined with paper towels. She left the rendered fat in the pan and set it aside. "Caterina Rosselli's granddaughter used her for her wedding last year. Said the food was magnifico. Professional, organized, everything perfect."
I hadn't known that. Hadn't realized Sofia kept track of the local catering scene.
"She's ex-military," I added. "Army food services."
Sofia's expression lifted, approval in her eyes. "Ah. That explains the discipline. Good. She'll need it if she's going to put up with you."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I'm serious, Daemon." She tested the water with her finger, nodded, and dumped in a generous handful of salt before adding the spaghetti. The only concession to her advanced years was that the pasta was store-bought, though still Italian. "You're a good boy. But you're also stubborn and scared of commitment. A girl like that, she won't wait around while you figure yourself out."
"I know."
"Do you?" She stirred the pasta, her movements economical and sure. "Because I saw her this morning. I saw how she looked at you when she thought you weren't watching. That girl's already halfway in love with you, even if she doesn't know it yet. The question is, are you going to meet her halfway or are you going to run?"
My throat tightened. "I'm not running."
"Good." Sofia checked the pasta and deemed it not quite ready. "Now go set the table. There’s salad in the fridge, and fresh bread in the larder. Use the good plates. "
As I pulled out Sofia's wedding china, I thought about what she'd said. About Nadia being halfway in love with me. It seemed impossible. We’d spent little time together, other than stolen moments at events. But last night hadn't been stolen. Last night had been honest in a way that still had me off balance.
"Sofia?" I asked as I arranged the plates. "Did you ever cater events? Before you retired?"
She laughed. "Cater? Bambino, I cooked for the entire church for forty years. Weddings, baptisms, funerals, feast days. For every important event in this town, I made the food." She gave the pot a stir, watching it like a hawk. "I taught half the restaurants in Coogan's Break how to make proper Italian food. Not this 'Italian-inspired' trash. Proper food, made the way my nonna taught me."
"Why'd you stop?"
"Age caught up with me. These old bones don't want to stand for twelve hours anymore." She shrugged, philosophical. "But I still cook for friends. For the people I care about. For you."
An idea was forming. Something about Sofia's experience, her connections, and her authentic recipes. But before I could think it through, she was draining the pasta.
"Quick, the bowl!" she commanded.
I knew this dance. I grabbed the mixing bowl with the egg mixture and set it on the counter while Sofia, moving with surprising speed, used tongs to transfer the steaming pasta from the colander into the bowl. She added the crispy guanciale and a splash of starchy pasta water, then handed me the tongs.
"Now you toss. Off the heat, remember. Gentle but fast."
I tossed the pasta, watching the yolks transform from liquid to a creamy sauce that coated each strand in golden luxury. The cheese melted, the pepper dispersed, and the reserved guanciale fat made everything glossy and rich.
"Bene," Sofia said, and nodded her approval when the doorbell rang.
Seven o'clock on the dot. Of course Nadia would be dead on time.
