Mafia Chic. Erica Orloff

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СКАЧАТЬ the champagne long since gone to my head. I could only imagine the hell of standing over a hot stove the next day. “Given the unfortunate incarceration of half my family, and the fact that there are one hundred hijacked Betsey Johnson dresses in the basement of my parents’ house, do you really think a high-profile relationship is such a good idea?”

      “Fuck it all,” she said. “Then a toss in the hay and you’re done with him. But really, Teddi, do they expect you to marry a mobster?”

      I frowned. “No…I guess not.”

      “Trust me, darling. He seemed positively mad about you. If this works out, your parents will be delighted.”

      “I doubt it. But let’s take it one step at a time.”

      As the cabbie raced through the streets of Manhattan, I tried to quell the feelings of nausea in my stomach. But whether it was from the champagne or the prospect of telling “old money” Robert Wharton about my family tree, I wasn’t exactly sure.

      The next day I walked the twenty blocks to work. I’m one of the few New Yorkers blessed with an easy commute—a brisk walk instead of clinging to a subway strap for dear life, or exhaust fumes filling my nostrils as I ride the bus. The only tough thing is three days a week I work early. As in really early.

      At six-thirty, on three hours’ sleep, and my head pounding as if some heavy-metal drummer had taken up residence in my left temple, I was already starting a pot of gravy—what we Italians call spaghetti sauce—which would be used for the manicotti, as well as several pasta dishes. I took out fresh parsley and began chopping, finding a rhythm as the sharp knife hit the cutting board—chop, chop, chop—my fingers curled to control the blade. My cousin Quinn only worked nights, and the sous chef, Leon, wasn’t due in until nine-thirty, so I had the place to myself. Leon favored a serious hip-hop station on the radio. Chopping to DMX and Eminem can be kind of therapeutic. It can also get on your nerves. So I spent my mornings alone in silence, humming to myself, thinking of nothing in particular. This morning, however, I was thinking that Lady Di and her wild nightlife were going to be the death of me very soon. And I was thinking that Robert Wharton was very cute in a nonethnic kind of way. I couldn’t imagine someone with the last name of Wharton being struck by the thunderbolt. Somehow, I found that comforting—if he even called, which I doubted. So I put him from my mind and concentrated on the simmering pot after popping two aspirin.

      Next, I busied myself making the soup of the day—a pasta fajioli—then went to the front of the house—restaurant talk for the dining room—and fetched a cold club soda from the bar. I looked around the restaurant—my place. Or at least half mine and half Quinn’s. Though to be technical about it, the bank owned a big chunk, too.

      I had wanted my own restaurant since I could remember. My grandfather owned a restaurant in Brooklyn, and though he owned it for business reasons—Mafia business reasons—I had spent much of my childhood sitting at its checkered-tablecloth tables, eating authentic food prepared by men who spoke only Italian.

      When Quinn and I found our place, it was suffering from neglect. The floors were filthy, the lighting dim and roaches roamed freely across the stainless counters in the kitchen. But Quinn and I saw past all that. Now, with room for twenty-two tables, Teddi’s sparkled. We had the walls painted with a faux finish that resembled stone walls, vaguely reminiscent of Florence, sort of ancient-looking. The ivory tablecloths were crisp, and the plates on each table bore handpainted flowers on the rim. When nighttime came and the small votives on each table were lit, with fresh flowers in each bud vase and a crowd at the bar waiting for a table, it was magical. At the end of every shift, Quinn and I would each have a sambuca with three coffee beans floating for good luck and go over the night and unwind. I had never, not even for a moment, wanted to do anything else, despite the long hours. Despite the fact that it was back-breaking sometimes. Despite the fact that I had a hangover and was staring at a double shift.

      I went back into the kitchen—my domain—and continued prepping for lunch. Around ten o’clock the back office phone rang. “Teddi’s,” I answered on line two.

      “Is Teddi there? The owner Teddi?”

      “Who’s calling?” I was used to food and beverage sales guys calling, trying to get our account. Linen companies. Wine sales reps.

      “It’s Robert Wharton.”

      “Robert? It’s Teddi.”

      “Thought that was your voice.”

      I managed to sputter out a hello. A man in Manhattan who actually called when he said he would?

      “You gave me your card,” he offered, as if the reason I sounded a little stunned was I didn’t remember him. As if I could forget his anchorman smile.

      “Of course.” I finally regained my composure. “It’s nice to hear from you, Robert.”

      “Listen…I would love to take you to dinner.”

      “Um…great.” Nit-twit, as Di would call me. So much for witty repartee.

      “What’s your schedule like?”

      “Thursdays are good. I usually work Friday night. My sous chef does Thursday night. I do lunch Thursday instead.”

      “What about Sunday? I’m off on Sundays.”

      I crinkled up my face in a wince he couldn’t see. Sunday was sacrosanct—family dinner in Brooklyn. “Sundays are no good.”

      “Thursday then. Next Thursday okay?”

      “Sure.”

      “I’m a little nervous taking a chef out for dinner. You probably have high standards.”

      “No. I was born in a family of professional eaters. But honestly, I’m not that fussy. I like to enjoy someone else’s cooking for a change.”

      “How about if we meet at a little Japanese place called Yama’s at Fifty-fifth and Seventh?

      “I’ve heard of it.” Heard of it? I’d heard it was one of the priciest new restaurants in the city—and the sushi chef was a temperamental master. I knew I’d love to scope out their menu. Japanese was a style of cooking I’d longed to experiment with. My mother mocked my Manhattan eating adventures. “Raw fish,” she’d once said. “What’s next? Cold monkey meat?”

      “I’ll make reservations for eight-thirty. Okay? Does that sound all right?”

      “Okay. See you then.”

      “I’m really looking forward to it.”

      “Me, too.”

      I hung up the phone by pressing down on the reset button. Then I immediately speed-dialed Lady Di on her cell, which she wore attached to her hip at all times, with a tiny little earpiece set in her ear. Di also carried a Palm Pilot and had her laptop at home perpetually plugged in. Besides dressing to the nines, she was wired to the nines.

      “Diana Kent here,” she answered.

      “It’s Teddi.”

      “Hello there, flatmate,” she said, never getting used to calling me her roommate or roomie.

      “He СКАЧАТЬ