Page 10 of Claiming Puerto Vallarta

By the end of dinner rush, the pizza oven sounds like it’s breathing. It’s that low, steady exhale it gets when the worst is over and the heat starts settling back into itself.

“Pizza Dude,” Marco calls from the dish pit. “You done with this pan?”

I look over my shoulder.

He’s holding up a sheet pan with two burnt pepperoni cups stuck to one corner.

“Does that look done to you?”

Marco looks at the pan. Then at me. “I was hoping.”

“Hope’s beautiful. Scrape it.”

He flips me off with the hand not holding the pan.

“Food safety,” I say. “Love to see it.”

The kitchen has emptied into that weird after-rush stage where everything is still moving but nobody has the energy to make it look urgent. I wipe flour off the edge of my table with the side of my hand, then use the bench scraper to get the rest. Dough dries fast under heat. If you don’t keep ahead of it, it turns into concrete with yeast problems.

I stack the empty dough trays, wrap the last four balls for tomorrow, and check the sauce by smell. A little sweet tonight. Carmine’s been messing with the recipe again, which he only does when he’s bored or fighting with his wife. Based on the oregano situation, I’m guessing wife.

“You hear me?” Carmine says.

He’s standing at the pass with his arms folded over his belly, white apron tied under it, reading glasses pushed up on his head. He’s got gray in his beard and tomato sauce on his shirt, which is pretty much his natural state.

“I do now.”

“I said your special moved good tonight.”

“Of course it did.”

I grab the pizza peel and start scraping the blade clean.

Carmine’s still standing there.

“What?” I ask.

“You doing another one tomorrow?”