Before opening the pot, the chef says, “Tell me, food blogger, what do you smell?”
“Garlic, for sure. Roasted tomatoes. The tang in the air—red wine.”
Her expression doesn’t soften, exactly, but she removes the lid. “Dai!” She motions for me to move in closer before snapping her fingers for her sous chef, who instinctively hands her a bowl and a ladle. With one swift stir, she scoops a small amount of the liquid into the bowl. “Mangia.”
The liquid in the bowl is deep red—it’s not watery, but it’s not thick, either. One baby octopus tentacle, almost purple from the wine, peeks out from the surface. She hands me a spoon.
I go straight for the tentacle; it’s so tender it cuts like butter.
“Va bene, eh?” she asks, kissing the air.
“Molto bene!” I say into the camera on Matty’s phone. “The key to a perfect zuppa di moscardini is to do a quick sear on the octopus, then simmer until it’s tender, like this, so it soaks up all that flavor from the broth.” I sip from the mouth of the spoon, making sure to get the velvety broth with the meat. “So many layers! The vegetables are so fresh, the octopus so velvety. That rich umami. The garlic, the warmth of . . . chili?”
“Sì, you do have quite a palate.” A smirk twitches at the corner of her mouth.
“This is beyond.” My eyes roll in the back of my head. “This dinner is going to be bananas, Chef Vittoria.” Matty zooms in on her embroidered jacket.
“Grazie,” she says.
“Prego,” I say. “Do you mind if I come back one night this week and film you cooking, try your food on camera? I could give you some really great exposure. Blow you up. You could become huge!”
You ever regret somethingasthe words are coming out of your mouth?
“Youcould giveme?” Chef Vittoria slams the lid down on the pot. “Disgraziato.” Her hands fly up into the air in my direction. “I don’t need your followers. Not every chef is looking to make a fool of themselves online for likes. I don’t cook for billions of people; I cook withlove. For art. This is my life. I’m not some kid looking to have fun on vacation. You come into my kitchen and make a mockery of me?”
Matty’s hands fall to his side.
My balls shoot so far up inside my body I might as well cease to exist.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” I start.
“Delete that video,” Chef Vittoria says. “Leave my kitchen, per favore?”
I nod, grab Matty, and we exit quickly, me keeping my head down.
The last thing I hear is Bianca’s voice saying, “Sorry about that. He means well, but he’s a bit much sometimes—”
Chef Vittoria cuts her off and mutters something in Italian, and I yank Matty harder so that we can get away faster. I don’t want to hear any more.
So much for winning over Ricky’s family.
Lanterns drip from the ceiling of the main dining room overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea. Stone arches frame the room on nearly all sides, ivy lining the walls and ceiling, making it look like an undiscovered paradise embedded with magic. One long wooden dining table sits in the center of the room, adorned with exquisite white china with delicate rose-gold trim, amber glassvases with pale pink flowers, and terracotta bowls of lemons and grapes. Long glass bottles of bright yellow limoncello and carafes of burgundy-red wine are scattered throughout. It smells of citrus and salt water and freshly cut grass, with a tang of blistered tomatoes and my flesh after Chef Vittoria charred me alive.
Matty and I are last to arrive because I had to lick my wounds in the bathroom and delete the footage. Matty asks how I’m doing, and between me seeing Bianca and getting eviscerated by a talented chef in front of her, my nerves are frazzled.
All sixteen people including Topher and Sienna are deep in conversation, and between the Lemons and the DeLucas, two loud-ass Italian families, the voices carry like sirens over the quiet night air.
Topher, at the head of the massive table next to Sienna, jumps to his feet and booms, “My boys! Now it’s a party!”
Normally I don’t mind being the center of attention—in my family, it’s eat or be eaten—but all I can see is Ricky’s face staring directly at mine like he’s the only one at the table. Or in the room. Or in the entire damn country. I wonder if Bianca told him what happened in the kitchen already. My cheeks heat.
Ricky’s eyes are soft? Maybe it’s the reflection of the lanterns over him, but a flash of memories take hold. Us at a local carnival last spring. Recorded footage of us taste-testing crispy, sugary funnel cakes and fried Oreos, juicy sweet-and-hot sausage and pepper wedges dripping with tomato sauce, and root beer floats. Ricky playfully smashing my nose into the whipped cream, laughing hysterically as the lens zooms in on my shocked face. The way he licked it off my nose and kissed me, grabbed a handful of napkins and wiped it off for me while apologizing. I rememberlooking into the camera of my phone and saying, “This is true love.” I went to dump a tray of Mexican street corn on him, but stopped, which caught him off guard because he fully expected retaliation. Instead, I kissed his cheek, and the way his face softened still takes my breath away.
Not that I rewatch that video. Because I super don’t.
But I still get comments on it, and it has sixteen million views!
Ricky’s face now reminds me of him being surprised by his own surprise.
