Mirepoix (A Recipe Of Love Book 1) (2 page)

“You’re telling me that not only did you beat me, but you didn’t do anything different when making them?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, so you said that you don’t use any special ingredients. So how do you know what made them beat mine? Have you even had mine?!” He is growling at me again, and I can clearly count his pulse in that throbbing vein on his forehead.

“Clearly I have had yours, or I couldn’t tell you your dough was too dry! Well, I’m assuming it was, since the pasta you serve in your restaurant is. We went to the event, supposedly on a lark to support other small businesses but, as you know only the judges tasted the pasta. The reason my pasta beat yours is the same reason you keep being nominated but not getting your precious award. You’ve lost touch with the food! You don’t follow the basic rule of ‘keep it simple, stupid’. You rely on appliances to make everything faster and easier, losing the joy of playing with ingredients and feeling your food. When was the last time you walked the few blocks from your restaurant to the Italian Market to check out produce, cheese or meats that might be better than what you’re currently serving?” Now I’m the one ranting like a lunatic.

We both stand on opposite sides of the island, our hands planted as we lean towards each other. I take a deep breath and instantly regret it because his scent invades me, trying to lure me closer. He must not have been in the kitchen today because all I can smell is his crisp, clean, cedar based scent. I’m guessing it’s from his soap; there’s no alcohol messing it up which is one of my main issues with perfume and cologne.

Without giving him a chance to respond to my question, I blurt, “What soap do you use? Their cedar wood scent is amazing!”

Clearly not expecting this bout of randomness, he straightens to his full height and looks down at me quizzically.
“I have no clue, it’s a body wash my mom gave me. It helps get the grease from the kitchen plus the smell of onions and garlic off me after a long shift.” 

This is the first time since he stomped into my apartment he hasn’t sounded angry, so I can finally admit the thrill his voice sends racing up and down my spine. If he had just started out like this, I might have just explained my KISS theory of life. Then again, I was already cranky due to the numerous voicemails over the week demanding that I come explain how a no name home cook beat him. I was prepared to yank the stick out of his ass and beat him with it for disturbing my peaceful home by making my phone ring.

Everyone in my life knows not to bother calling. I can’t stand talking on the phone, it limits my ability to do five things at once and forces me to focus only on the conversation which I readily admit is not a skill I’ve mastered. I think phones somehow magnify social awkwardness. You can’t see the other person’s face to tell if they’re rolling their eyes at you or frowning. I always imagine the worst and assume they’re silently mocking me in some manner, and can’t wait to get off the phone. I start stammering and lose track of what I’m saying, or what the other person said, leading to a self-fulfilling prophecy of awkwardness. It’s easier to just text.

Staring up into at Joe the tingle his voice caused forces to look at him, not as a nemesis but a man, and I have to admit he is attractive. His black hair is pulled up into a manbun, leaving nothing to distract from his sharp cheekbones and a jawline that looks to be chiseled from marble. His forearms are covered in ink, and corded with muscles, ending in the large, long-fingered hands with the tattoos that still intrigue me. I can see small scars dotting his fingers, showing his years spent in kitchens around very sharp knives. I may want to burn his clothes in an effigy, but the body under it appears to be pretty spectacular.

“I’ll make you a deal. You let me know the brand of soap and explain the tattoos, and in return I’ll rekindle your love of food. I can help remind you being a great chef is more about great food than pretty pale purple polo shirts.”

After several seconds of silence, one side of his mouth rises into a sinful smirk as he crosses his arms. Holy Mother of God, forget purple shirts. Just put a video of him smirking like that, talking in his low voice that hints at naughty things done in the dark of night with those sexy hands with their tattoos, and every woman in America would line up to beg for the chance to eat his dry chewy pasta.

Studying me for a few more seconds, he slowly nods and extends his hand. “Deal. If only to find out why you seem to despise this shirt so much.”

3

As I sit on the small patio attached to my favorite coffee shop, basking in the early morning sun like a cat, I find myself again questioning my sanity. Not only am I awake in the morning but I’m dressed and in public, expected to behave myself and act like
a human at a time I consider obscene!  I close my eyes and tilt my face up to the sun letting its warmth lull me
almost back to sleep.

Today’s outfit is a typical me outfit consisting of a pair of black leggings, a black tank top, a pair of colorful low top canvas sneakers and a tote bag big enough to carry a small child. I have plenty of stuff inside said bag that can entertain me such as books, crocheting stuff and a notebook for any random ideas that need to be written down so they don’t float off. One day I vow I won’t let my emotions and curiosity get the best of me, then immediately get lost in thought trying to figure out if curiosity could be considered an emotion.

I feel someone block the sun that was warming me into relaxation and open my eyes to the sight I knew would be waiting for me. Sure enough I looked up into Joe’s face with that one eyebrow arched disdainfully. One day I will wax that eyebrow off to teach it a lesson.

“Do you think that curiosity would be considered an emotion or rather a state of being?” I blurt like I always do, I seem to forget social niceties constantly. Why say hello when I can launch what will hopefully be an entertaining philosophical discussion.

“Well you do feel curiosity which would make it seem like an emotion but I can also feel cold which is a state of being, maybe it is the state of being as a result of the emotional desire for knowledge.”

Struck by the fact that he didn’t simply indulge me or shrug off the question but put serious thought into it made a smile bloom across my face. I was so happy that I decide to ignore the fact that he was late. I despise lateness which is weird for someone who hates schedules and timelines as much as I do. For me it isn’t promptness that fuels it, it is the wasted time; thus the tote bag so if I am stuck somewhere killing time I can be productive while doing so. Glancing at my watch as I pick up my cooling espresso I see he was only 17 minutes late so I’ll forgive him this time, that eyebrow is still getting waxed though.

“Would you like an espresso or coffee?” I gesture to the shop we’re sitting next to. “I know your restaurant would have closed early last night but don’t know if you normally sleep in on your day off.”

“Thankfully I have a manager who takes the morning deliveries so I haven’t been up quite this early in a while. So an espresso would be great, I’ll be right back.” I stop him as he tries to stand up and go inside waving him back into his seat.

“MIKEY! Hook me up with another shot!”

I sit back in my chair and see he’s staring at me again, as are half the customers that haven’t witnessed the Frankie show in the past. The other half are regulars and are used to my shenanigans, I feel myself starting to freeze from the attention before getting distracted by Mikey. Mikey stomps out of the shop in all of his barrel chested glory, I have the stray thought that maybe if he didn’t resemble a stampeding bull so much I wouldn’t poke at him like I do. He does his best at looking down on me in an intimidating fashion but at only 5’6”, a scant 3 inches taller than me, it’s not very effective even if I’m sitting down. He grumbles at me in Italian, throws a few side eyed looks at Joe, then kisses my forehead while murmuring his goodbyes.

“It’s a good thing I speak Italian fluently too or I might be jealous, even if he is old enough to be your father," Joe takes a sip out of the tiny cup that looks doll sized in his massive hands.

“Grandfather, he was one of my Grandma’s beau's back in the day. Sorry about that, he refuses to speak to me in English. He’s worried I’ll forget my Italian if I don’t use it every day.”

“And he’s apparently glad to see you in the sunlight since he was worried you had become a vampire. What was the bit about the gelato at the end?”

“Old cranky pants said I still can’t get gelato or water ice for breakfast, even if I came in to see him while the sun was up, since Grandma would haunt him.” I pout. He has the best water ice in the whole city, I hadn’t even thought about asking for any but now that
he brought it up I can’t stop. I think it should count if I get a fruit flavored one. 

“I hadn’t realized she had passed, I’m sorry.” Lowering his cup he pats my hand in a conciliatory fashion. I need him to go back to mocking or angry, I don’t want to see the more humane side of him or the thoughtful philosophical side. I finally glance at his clothes hoping he’s wearing something I can use to shove any positive feelings back into a box deep inside me. Today he’s wearing a faded gray shirt that looks like it has been washed a million times, I want to rub against that shirt like a cat. A pair of dark jeans hug his legs and lead to a pair of motorcycle boots. I feel my eyebrows draw together a line of confusion forming between them. This outfit matches the tattoos and hair better but are nearly opposite the outfit he wore to see me. Will the real Joseph Moretti please stand up?

“It’s my day off. I get to wear what I want and be myself on my day off.” He must have noticed where my attention chose to focus.

“So you can’t be yourself when you’re working? It’s your restaurant. I would think that would be the most
you
place you could be.”

“No, I need to present myself a certain way according to my manager. She says I need to look professional and not like a street thug.”

“Your manager sounds like a big old bag of stupid. Luckily you’re the one who has to deal with
her and not me as I have a teeny tiny problem with authority and conformity.  Are you done with the coffee? I don’t
like sitting still long.” I grab my bag as I’m saying this giving him little choice but to swallow the last bit.

“Okay so what are we doing here since I highly doubt it was just to grab a cup of espresso, no matter how great it was?” He questions as he stands and holds a hand out to help me up. I don’t think he’s even aware of his actions, simply a gentlemanly action he was raised doing.

“That’s easy. We’re doing my weekly grocery shopping.”

“We’re going grocery shopping?” He asks in disbelief.

“Yep. I need to get my fresh produce and some herbs. I normally do it on Sundays but I know that the only day you’re closed is Mondays. You’re lucky I was willing to wait, since it means I have to miss out on my favorite bacon since the meat shop that carries it is closed on Mondays too.”

“So watching you pick out apples is going to make me a better cook?”

“No, meeting the shop owners, being willing to try new suppliers for different staple ingredients will make you a better cook. Also I think you need some spontaneity in your life.”

“Grocery shopping is spontaneous?”

“It is with me! I don’t have a list. I don’t even know what I want to make for dinner tonight. I’ll see what jumps out at me and yells ‘make me’ and base the meal around it. It could be the perfect cut of meat, it might be an amazing cheese, it could even be some ripe juicy apples. Oh look the cheese shop is open already! Let’s go see what they brought up from the caves today!”

“Caves?” I hear from behind me as I rush into the shop, mind consumed with the delicious cheeses I’m going to be busy sampling shortly!

I’m currently crouched down staring in the meat case. My eyes are probably the size of saucers and I look like a little kid at a bakery eying cupcakes. I can’t help myself though, the butcher just got done cutting gorgeous thick ribeyes. The marbling looks amazing and I know this is what I will be having for dinner. I have some herb butter in my freezer I made last weekend and I can get some potatoes down
the street the size of a  football that will bake to perfection. Throw in whatever vegetable looks good when I’m getting the potatoes and it will be a simple delicious dinner. I glance over my shoulder and see Joe talking to the butcher.

He looked sceptical when I dragged him into the cheese shop, but after sampling the great cheeses brought up that morning from the cave, as well as the fresh mozzarella, I think he started to open his mind. Now standing in one of my favorite butchers shops I think I may have won him over. I go back to examining the ribeyes. The question stuck in my mind is am I buying 1 or 2 of the steaks? I look back again and he sees me looking. Him and the butcher both make their way over to me where I’m still crouched down in front of the case.

“I have never seen a woman look at a cut of meat like that. Shoes and purses maybe, but never a steak.” He chuckles while towering over me next to the case.

“You either haven’t been paying attention or haven’t been around the right type of women.” I pop up out of my crouching position like
a jack-in-the-box startling him. 
I hear deep chuckles coming from behind him and peek around to see Anthony laughing at my antics. I very maturely stick my tongue out at him and inform him with my middle finger that I think he’s number one. I ignore Joe shaking his head at me again. I’ve decided to interpret it as bemusement instead of frustration or confusion.