Dinner at Fiorello’s (5 page)

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 cocked 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.”

“Well, they can’t. I’m eighteen.” Henry knew she was right. They
would
try to stop him. And he was dreading telling them.

“So go on. Get out of here. We need someone right away, so I’m only giving you until tomorrow to answer me. But I don’t want you to make up your mind until then. I really want you to think about what you’re doing. As I said, we’re not in a position to offer college kids summer jobs. I’ll be mad as hell if you work here the summer and then leave for school. I got a long list of applicants who I’m pretty sure won’t do that to me.

“So you take today and tonight and think real hard about this. Talk to your parents. See if I’m wrong about them. And
then
come back here tomorrow and tell me what you wanna do.”

Henry already knew what he wanted to do but could tell Rosalie was not the type of woman who would appreciate his going against her. He nodded. “Okay. That’s good advice—” His voice trailed off as he wondered what he should call her. “—Mrs. Fiorello.” He decided now was not the time to ask if it was okay if he used her first name.

Henry sat there for a few minutes, not saying anything but enjoying the moment.

Rosalie looked up at him. “Kid. I got work to do here.
Vattènne!
”

Henry stood quickly. He didn’t know Italian, but he knew enough from the context and the way she shooed him with her hand that it meant to go away.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fiorello. I’ll be by tomorrow.”

She nodded and didn’t look up from the papers she was sorting through. “Sure you will.”

H
ENRY
STEPPED
out onto the sidewalk and experienced the reverse of walking into the restaurant. He had to squint at the brilliant sunlight pouring down. It took him a minute or two for his eyes to adjust after the dimness inside.

He allowed himself to simply stand still so he could sink back into reality. The ‘L,’ just a block west, rumbled out of Jarvis station, its metal wheels screeching as they gathered speed on the tracks. A car with a faulty muffler roared by. Two Hispanic women, one pushing a baby in a stroller, passed him, chattering away in Spanish. Although Henry had taken the language in high school, they were talking so fast he couldn’t understand a word. The leaves in the trees whispered, telling secrets.

All around him, the world went on. It seemed to Henry like there should be some acknowledgment for this turning point. Was he really going to do it? His father would say he was throwing his life away. His mother might cry. Maxine would stand by, keeping her own counsel. But Henry wondered if even
she
might try to dissuade him from tossing aside the trappings of his affluent life.

Could he do it? Did he really, really want to?

Henry turned east and knew the answer was yes. Undoubtedly. He’d never felt more certain about anything in his young life.

“You’re crazy,” he whispered to himself. “Flat-out fucking looney.” He continued walking east, drawn by the sparkling diamonds cast upon the surface of Lake Michigan.

When he neared Sheridan Road, he came upon something that caused him to stop short. His mother’s car, a Mercedes two-seater, was parked on the street. Henry laughed. There was no way his mother was in the Rogers Park neighborhood. The woman seldom left the suburbs. But the Merc was the same color as his mother’s—silver.

How many silver Mercedes were there in the city, anyway? A thousand? Ten thousand? Too many to count, anyway. This car was simply a coincidence.

As Henry neared the Merc, he peered inside. There, on the passenger seat, was the book his mother was reading:
Gone Girl
, by Gillian Flynn. She’d been reading it for the last year, in fact. He doubted she’d ever finish it.

Still, it was just a coincidence, right? One of those things….

He peered inside the car, searching for more clues. The interior was clean, the leather seats virtually sparkling. He noticed, on the floor between the front and back seats, a silver Nordstrom bag. Henry pressed his nose to the glass and saw there was a shoebox inside the bag with the Ferragamo logo—his mother’s favorite brand of shoe.

This was no coincidence. Henry stepped away from the car, looking around himself guiltily, as though he was casing the car in order to steal it.

What was his mother doing in Rogers Park? It made no sense.

Had she followed him here? Henry shook his head, remembering she had left before he did. He’d watched her go.