Last Bite: A Novel of Culinary Romance (20 page)

W
HEN
I
GOT HOME
around four o’clock, my Uncle Tony’s car was parked in the driveway and I could smell the cannoli the minute I opened the back door. This was definitely a situation. A good china plate with a dozen or so filled cannoli was sitting on the counter, and my mother, Aunt Maria, and Nonna were standing with their ears pressed against the closed dining room door.

“Hey! What’s up?”

The three of them turned together and whispered for me to shush. Then Mom tiptoed over to me and pulled me into the pantry.

“Uncle Tony is here with Mrs. Alfano and Father Joseph. She’s been taking money from the candle donation boxes and he caught her.”

“What? Why’s she taking money?”

“It sounds like she’s been playing bingo a little too much.”

“Come on! How much can bingo cost?”

“Uncle Tony is trying now to get to the bottom of it.”

“How’d she get caught?”

“Well, she’s on the Altar Guild, so it was her job to bring the money to Father Joseph. He noticed that each week there was less and less and finally none. That’s when he confronted her on the altar. She panicked, said she didn’t deserve to live, and then threw herself on top of the votive lights. I suppose she planned to burn herself to death with the candles, but being so big and all she just snuffed out those that were burning and broke a few more. That’s when Father Joseph called your Uncle Tony.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, and as hard as she tried, my mother couldn’t keep a straight face. “Do you think she’ll go to jail?” I asked between chortles.

“I don’t think so. But she’ll surely go to hell.”

“That would be redundant.”

“Come on. I have to hear the rest of this.” My mother resumed her position next to Nonna and Aunt Maria, and I easily fit my ear at the door above their three heads. I’d never heard Uncle Tony so mad or heard him speak to his mother like this.

“You’re telling me you spent your social security
and
the allowance I give you, a total of over
nine hundred dollars a month
, in a bingo hall and you needed to pinch pennies from the poor box? How could bingo cost that much? Jesus, it was only a dollar a card the last time I played.”

“I played more than one card, Anthony.”

“How many cards can you play? Five? Ten? That still doesn’t account for all that money.”

“
Aiuda, Jazzugeet
.” I thought it was an inappropriate time for Mrs. A to be asking Jesus for help since they were his pennies she’d swiped, but she was probably not in a rational frame of mind.

Uncle Tony’s tone became gentler. “
I’m
trying to help you, Ma. But I can’t help unless you tell me what’s going on.”

“It wasn’t just Bingo, Anthony,” she admitted. “Mrs. Colasanto won this big amount of money playing the horses. She told her nephew what horses she liked and he played them for her. She said he’d do it for me if I wanted. So sometimes he’d come to the church on bingo night and I’d give him some money. When he didn’t come, I’d tell my picks to Mrs. Colasanto and she’d tell him. Sometimes I’d call him on the phone. He’d play the horse and then collect the money later if I lost. I didn’t realize I was losing so much, and sometimes he wouldn’t wait for his money. I didn’t always have enough to pay him back.”

There was a frightening pause and then Uncle Tony absolutely exploded, sending the four of us cowering away from the door. “Colasanto?
Carmen
Colasanto? For Christ’s sake, Ma. Carmen Colasanto’s a bookie. What the hell were you thinking?”

“Watch your mouth, Anthony. Forgive him, Father. He isn’t really a bookie. He just loaned me money as a favor to his aunt.”

“
That’s
what a bookie, does, Ma!
Mannaggia a l’America. Mannaggia
. How much did she take, Father?”

“Well, it’s not really about the money, it’s—”

“How much?”
Uncle Tony was really steaming.

“About two hundred dollars. It will have to be paid back. And Mrs. Alfano is not allowed back in St. Michael’s.”

I would have thought that was exactly where she should be, on her knees. You know, purging her soul of sin and all that. But what did I know?

“Maria! Bring me the checkbook.” We stepped back from the door so Aunt Maria could take the checkbook to Uncle Tony. My mother whispered to her to leave the door open so we could get a look at what was going on. Mrs. Alfano, head bowed, was sitting at the table. Her black dress was singed in several spots. Uncle Tony, his face beet red, was pacing and muttering behind her. Old Father Joseph, pale and washed out as usual, was standing—or, I should say, swaying, since he does drink a little—a few feet from the side of Mrs. A, with his hands folded so the tips covered his mouth as if in solemn prayer, or perhaps to cover any odor of the Jack Daniel’s he preferred.

“Do you intend to press charges, Father?” Uncle Tony asked before he signed the check.

“I’ve been thinking about that and don’t know what to do. Perhaps I have to speak to my superiors. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“Oh, come on, Father. Don’t you remember guys tipping over the baptismal font, trying to get into the poor box with a penknife, drawing dirty pictures in the Mass books?” Uncle Tony was never a fan of Father Joseph’s; now he seemed to be as put out with him as he obviously was with his mother.

“No. I don’t remember any of that.”

“Well, then you don’t remember Frankie DeCesare and Vinny Guccione.”

“I never liked that Vinny Guccione.” Mrs. Alfano was probably
hoping the conversation was now turning to someone else’s sins.

“I’m going to have to think and pray about this,” Father Joseph said without uncovering his mouth.

Probably seeing this as an opportune moment, my mother picked up the plate of cannoli and went into the room. “Would you care for one, Father?” Her attempt at a bribe was totally blatant, but the priest took a cannoli anyway. I thought that was in poor taste. He really should just have left without eating pastry as though this were a christening celebration instead of a robbery-and-candle-snuffing confrontation.

In the end, it was Nonna who put a stop to any talk of pressing charges. “Oh, she’s just an old woman, Father. And how do we know that money would have gone to the poor and not for a little bourbon for the rectory? Now eat your cannoli and let’s forget this ever happened.” Father Joseph ate his cannoli.

B
EFORE
I
WENT TO
bed that night, I called Jonathan. There was no answer, so I left a message on his machine saying that I hoped he was okay. As difficult as he could be, I wouldn’t want to do the show without him. I didn’t know how to make brown beautiful with parsley.

Who’s foolin’ who?
—Delbert McClinton

T
he next morning, even with a stop at the buffet, I was the first one in the kitchen. Danny was second. He poked his head in the door. “Is this late enough? I’ve been hiding around the corner for twenty minutes so everyone would see that you got here first.”

“Never happened,” I said.

“Sure it did. I saw you come in with your Danish and coffee.”

I held up my empty plate. “They were muffins.”

He came into the room. “I thought you only took muffins on your second buffet run.”

“I mix it up to confuse anyone spying on me.”

“You just can’t count on people anymore,” he said, sitting down across from me. “By the way, I got my first Ella delivery. The chicken came wrapped prettier than a present from Clery & Co.”

“From where?”

“Clery & Co. One of Ireland’s oldest department stores. The chickens were wrapped individually and laid out neatly in the
box. I think I got Ella, Ella, Ella, and Ella.” That made me laugh. “He also sent me some of his eggs to taste. You should have seen the yolks. They were almost orange. He must give the chickens some leafy greens with their feed.”

I squinted at him. “Do you know that because you spent summers on your grandparents’ farm?”

“It’s the truth,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. “I swear.”

“Okay. I believe you.” I looked at the clock. It was almost a quarter of six. “We should get started.”

“Where do we begin?”

“First of all, did you bring a change of shirts?” He was wearing black jeans and a faded blue chambray shirt, which would be fine, but he needed a different shirt for each of his three shows.

“Oh! I left them on a chair around the corner.” He walked out the door and came back in carrying several hangers. “Sonya said I could wear a chef’s coat or street clothes. I decided to go with the street clothes, but I wasn’t sure what would be best, so I brought a few choices. Should I try them on for you?” He laid the selection of shirts on Romeo and began to unbutton the one he was wearing.

“No!” I said a little too emphatically. “Sonya will be the one to decide.”

“So you don’t want me to undress?” he asked, grinning at me.

“No. I do not. I want you to cook.” I took two aprons from the linen draw and handed him one. “Here. And you should keep the bib up in case you need that shirt for the show.”

“Yes, Chef.” Most male chefs fold the bib of a chef’s apron under and tie the apron around their waists, which leaves their tops unprotected. I don’t have linen service, so I keep the bib
up. I slipped my apron over my head without realizing that the neck strap had a knot in it. Mae must have worn it last and knotted the strap so the apron would be the right size for her. The knot raised it too high for me to tie the straps at my waist, so I reached behind my head to undo it. It was stubborn, the way knots are after they go through the wash, and I was having a hard time with it.

“Here, let me do that.” He stood close to me and reached behind me and began to work the knot. His knuckles kept brushing the back of my neck and I think my heart stopped, or at least my breathing did. I wondered if he could feel the little tiny hairs standing up. I bet he could. He was grinning that grin at me again.

“There,” he said. “You seem to have a lot of trouble with your clothing.”

“Only when you’re around, but don’t take it personally.” If I didn’t move away from him soon, I was afraid it would become more personal. Now that I had made it clear to him that I did not want to get involved, I actually enjoyed the flirting. I just wasn’t certain that my body was clear on the message. I picked up my tote bag and dug out the scripts. “You want to work on the lamb?”

“I’ll do anything you want, love. You know that. Just give me the word.”

I pulled four racks of lamb out of the refrigerator. “This one we leave untrimmed so you can show what it looks like from the market. This one needs to be completely trimmed; that’s the one we’ll cook ahead of time. Trim all the bones but one rib on this one. That’s the bone you’ll clean on TV. And trim this one completely but do nothing with it.”

“What’s that one for? I didn’t see it in the script.” He had done his homework.

“That’s in case you can’t get the bone trimmed fast enough.”

“I will,” he said.

Mae walked in followed by two Tonys. Her hair tuft was sprayed kelly green and she wore a bright orange ruffled skirt and a white tank top. She looked like the Irish flag and I was glad for her that Danny picked up on it.

“Well, look at you, love, sporting the colors.”

“I thought it’d be cool in your honor.”

“Where did you ever find a skirt that color?” I asked. I meant for my question to sound more inquisitive and less incredulous, but Mae didn’t seem to notice.

“I dyed it. I have more of the dye at home if you want me to dye something for you.”

“Thanks. It
is
an absolutely amazing color.”

She smiled in acknowledgment that it was amazing and then asked, “Where should I begin?”

“With the tuna tartare, and let’s go over it first.” Because the tuna spot was essentially two separate recipes, the tartare and the wonton cups, we had to lay out the ingredients carefully. The cameras would shoot the tuna from one angle, then swing over as Danny moved to another spot on the set. We had to make sure that he had what he needed in each position, so he wouldn’t be moving back and forth. We’d need salt in both places so he wouldn’t have to reach. We’d decided that he should make the tartare and leave it in the bowl where it was made. Then he could move to the wontons, assemble them, pop them in the oven, and return to a third spot on the counter with a twin bowl of tartare and already baked wontons. He would then fill one and put it on a plate with the triangles. Danny knew what he was going to do at each spot; we had to make sure that what he needed to do it was in the proper place.

Mae marked trays according to position on the set and then began to make the wonton cups. It was still too early for Jonathan to be there, if he was coming, but I began to worry a bit since I knew a substitute designer would not have a key to his cabinet. We had some dishes and platters in the kitchen but nothing like what was in Jonathan’s private stash. I began to rummage through cabinets to see what I could find.

Danny finished trimming the lamb and I set him to work on cooking shallots and mushrooms for his swap. I gave him a Tony all to himself so he wouldn’t have to hunt for equipment or peel his own shallots or wipe his own mushrooms.

A little after six-thirty, Sonya came into the kitchen, greeted us all, and then said, “Casey, I have to fill in as line producer today, so I won’t be around much. Can you manage here?”

“Not a problem. I
was
wondering about Jonathan, though. Have you heard from him?”

“No. But if he doesn’t show up, let Lisa know and she’ll stand in as stylist.” Lisa was primarily responsible for keeping the living room set seasonal: pumpkins and leaves in fall, holly and red candles in December, tulips in April—that kind of thing. I knew her answer to styling the food would be to scatter blossoms around it.

Once Sonya left, the first thing I had to deal with was Danny’s wardrobe. “Okay, O’Shea. Looks like you’re going to have to take your clothes off for me after all.”

He laughed and put down his knife. “You first.”