Dinner at Fiorello's

Chapter 2-3

Henry stood up from the table, and Carmela moved back to let him pass. As he went by her, she said, “Just so you know, she wants to talk to you about the job.” Carmela said the words slowly, enunciating each word with exaggerated precision. Henry didn’t know whether he should love or hate this girl. Right about now, he was leaning toward the latter.

He headed into the kitchen and paused once he passed through the swinging doors. It was like stepping into another world. Where the light was muted and warm in the dining room, here the illumination was harsh from overhead fluorescents. In the dining room, there was the murmur of people talking and cutlery clinking on plates, all underscored by a muted backdrop of Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, and a bunch of others Henry was much too young to know the names of. Out there, dishes came out perfectly plated, garnished with fresh herbs and slices of lemon. But in the kitchen, it was organized chaos. A very tall, husky man Henry took to be the chef, clad all in black, stood at the stove, flipping ingredients expertly in two different sauté pans. He had a mop of curly black hair, and Henry was amazed at his dexterity and concentration. Down from him a bit, a short guy, probably only a little older than Henry himself, chopped vegetables and herbs at a cutting board. His hands were a blur with the chef’s knife, and Henry checked quickly to see if the guy had all his fingers.

He did.

The man at the stove turned for an instant, presumably to see who had entered his domain.

And Henry’s heart just about stopped. While Antonio in the front of the house was good-looking in a slick, player sort of way, the chef was—how could Henry put it? Rough-edged? His eyes, the color of whisky, were fierce and penetrated into Henry’s core with the simplest of glances. He had a heavy shadow of beard across his face and strong jawline, too heavy to be called five-o’clock shadow. Maybe nine o’clock or even ten. This brute probably needed to shave three times a day.

But he was gorgeous. There was something brooding, dark, and exotic about him. Henry wondered what the chef would look like clad in, oh, maybe just an apron. Shame on you! Get your mind out of the gutter!

Henry smiled weakly at him and he nodded, lifting his chin only once. If Henry hadn’t been staring so intently at him, he might have missed it. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the man. He suddenly understood what the term “awestruck” was all about. And that was maybe why he didn’t see the fifty-pound bag of yellow onions on the floor as he moved toward the chef, hoping to at least shake his hand. Henry tripped and went down hard on one knee. He grabbed for the counter as he fell and knocked off a ceramic mixing bowl, which shattered.

Henry stood, hands shaking, and then bent over to reach for the broken pieces of bowl at his feet.

“Leave it,” Carmela hissed.

Henry stood up straight again, wiping his hands on his pants. He knew his face must be cherry red because his cheeks were burning with a kind of four-alarm intensity. He looked to the chef, to give him a sheepish grin and, he hoped, get a little sympathy.

The guy had paused, but only to stare at Henry as if he were some specimen in a zoo. A chimp, maybe. He rolled his eyes, and his lips turned up in a smirk. The chef returned to his pans, and Henry felt dismissed.

Someone else was staring at him too.

Rosalie had emerged from what must have been an office in the back and was watching him watch the chef, hands on her hips. Henry felt chastened, embarrassed. What was it with this place, anyway? In the space of an hour, he’d been caught staring, googly-eyed, at two different men. No need to come out of the closet here. His eyes outed him every time!

Rosalie was framed by the darker space behind her. She wasn’t smiling. “I’m back here,” she said and turned to disappear into the room.

Feeling sheepish, Henry followed.

“Sit down,” Rosalie commanded. Henry took a seat across from her. The room was indeed her office. It was no bigger than a closet. One wall was shelves, crammed with ledgers and old cookbooks that were falling apart at the seams. A dusty window looked out on the alley behind the restaurant, and Henry could see part of the dumpster. Above her head was a painting of Jesus, his hand holding his robes open to reveal his glowing heart.

Rosalie’s desk, a dinged-up green metal affair, was covered in papers, a stapler, a rubber stamp, and an adding machine. Henry assumed the papers were invoices and order forms. He felt like he was back on the ‘L’—the sweat was already beginning to flow from his armpits, even though the office was air-conditioned.

“Carmela tells me you didn’t just stop by for a little lunch.”

Henry tried to give her his best smile and wasn’t sure how well he’d succeeded. He wasn’t expecting to be on his first job interview today. God, what if he couldn’t think of anything to say?

He nodded and tried to summon some saliva to his suddenly overly dry mouth. He scratched at his neck. “Um, yeah.” He took a breath and tried to mentally still his thundering heart. “I was wondering about the job you posted on Craigslist.” He scratched at himself again, then snatched his hand and held it with his other one in his lap. “For the kitchen helper?”

“You don’t know what it’s for? You’re asking me?” Rosalie picked up one of the papers on her desk and scanned it. She set it back down and folded her hands in front of her.

Henry noticed the hands. No manicures for this woman. The nails were bitten down to the quick. These were careworn hands, hands that worked hard. He looked up again to see Rosalie, thankfully, smiling at him.

“I’m just givin’ you a hard time, kid. Relax. So, I gotta be honest—you don’t look like nobody else who’s come in for the job.”

“What do you mean?” Queer?

“Well, most of the folks who come in looking to be glorified dishwashers—and I gotta be honest, that’s what this is—are cut from a little rougher cloth. Working people. What are you? Seventeen?”

“Eighteen.”

Rosalie nodded. “You just graduate high school?”

Henry nodded.

“Do good?”

He nodded again.

“Where do you live?”

“Evanston.”

“In one of them fancy places along the lake?”

Henry grinned sadly. “You got me.” He knew where this was going. Rosalie wasn’t that much different from his parents. She was about to tell him he wouldn’t fit in here. He was meant for something different than working in a hot kitchen, busing tables, setting up flatware and plates. “But I really am interested in working here, especially after eating the food you make. It’s sublime.” Henry hoped that last word didn’t make him sound too gay. Or pretentious.

“Well, thanks. We try.” Rosalie c****d her head. “Look, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wonder what the hell you’re doing here. Don’t you have school lined up for the fall? I’m not lookin’ for summer help. I need someone I can count on, someone who will be here for more than three months or so.”

Henry thought about how transparent he was. This was hopeless. Should he just get up and shake Rosalie’s hand? Quit wasting her time? Instead he said what he knew his father would probably strangle him for. “I’m looking for full-time work, Mrs.—” Henry realized he didn’t even know Rosalie’s last name.

“Fiorello, you little ciuccio. I was married to the man who started this restaurant for almost forty years.” She looked down, and when she looked up again, Henry saw that her eyes were brighter, wetter. “He passed last fall. Heart attack.” She put her hand over her own heart.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah, well that and a couple, three bucks will get you a cup of coffee.” She eyed him, smiling again. “You sure you wanna work here? Tell me why.”

Henry sat back in the chair, allowing himself a few seconds to think. The answer to her question could make or break him. He licked his lips and let it come out, trying not to worry if it was too much information or too little. “Maxine. She’s the woman who’s been our housekeeper and cook ever since I was a little boy.” He met Rosalie’s gaze and could tell she was already judging him even more—a lakefront house on the North Shore and now a full-time housekeeper. And cook! He held up his hand. “Just let me finish here.”

Rosalie smiled, and Henry suspected she knew she’d been caught. “I just want you to have an open mind. You can make it up when you’ve heard the rest of what I have to say.”

Rosalie nodded.

“See, it’s like this. Maxine pretty much raised me. My mom is, well, she’s a little distant, maybe a bit self-absorbed. So Maxine was there for me. And the thing I got from Maxine was her love of food—the way she viewed it.”

“And how did this Maxine view it?”

“Well, she sees it as more than a means to an end, which is why I love her so much. She sees food as something that isn’t just about filling your belly, but filling your heart. She didn’t just feed me growing up, she nurtured me. She showed me that making food for someone can be a way of showing them you love them.” He looked at Rosalie, trying to make sure she was taking in, understanding what he was saying. “When I understood that, I knew that food can actually be a very powerful thing. I don’t know if I knew it right away on a conscious level, but I knew it. When I was about ten, I began asking her if I could help her make meals. My parents didn’t know what had gotten into me. My father said that I shouldn’t be helping her, because that’s what he paid her for. But I wanted to learn what she did to make her food not only good, but good for the soul.”

“What kind of stuff did she make?”

“She’s a simple one, so it was basics, more like comfort food.”

“Is she Italian, this Maxine?”

Henry shook his head. “No, why?”

“She just sounds like an Italian, that’s all. We respect food. It’s an important part of our culture.”

“I think Maxine is a mix, Polish, Irish, maybe a little German, not sure what else. But I was telling you about the things she cooks and what she taught me.” Henry drew in a breath because he realized he was describing his training in the kitchen. “She showed me how to make a basic chicken stock, that you don’t overwork ground meat, that your knife cuts need to be precise so your food cooks evenly, and that most dishes can be saved by two things, salt and pepper.”

Rosalie smiled bigger than he had ever seen her smile. “And garlic.”

Henry laughed. “And garlic. Sure. From her, I learned how to mince it and that those presses are for amateurs. I can now make meat loaf, real chicken soup, roast chicken, and an assortment of vegetables, most of which taste best when they’re dressed in olive oil and roasted until they caramelize a bit.”

“And what about the nurturing part? The love? She teach you how to do that?”

Henry wasn’t sure what to say. He finally confessed, “I don’t think that part can be taught. That’s the part where you just follow your instincts, what’s in your heart. I call it Maxine’s magic.”

“You’re a weird kid. You know that?”

Henry’s mouth dropped open.

“But I like you, even though everything is telling me not to offer you this job because in a couple hours here busting your butt, you’re gonna run back to your rich family and be a doctor or a lawyer or an accountant or something like that. But you know what? It seems like you got a good head on your shoulders and—more important—a decent heart. I trust my instincts in more than just the food we serve. I trust them for people too. And I have a good feeling about you.”

Henry couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across his face. Something pulsed through him that felt very much like joy. “So I have the job?”

“Not so fast.” Rosalie wagged her finger at him. “Yeah, I’ll give you a shot. But before you answer, I want you to consider a few things. One, I can’t pay you more than minimum wage, at least to start out. Two, you’re gonna work harder than you ever have. I hope you’re ready. Toiling away in a professional kitchen is very, very hard. Endless. I appreciate what you said about Maxine, but cooking at home is a walk in the park compared to what we do here. And three, I want you to understand that, even though I don’t know your mom and pop, I got a pretty good idea they’re not gonna like you following this line of work. They may even try to stop you.”