What Love Tastes Like. Zuri Day

I need something done right away,” he said as a greeting when his assistant answered the phone.

      Even though it was Saturday, her off-day, Christina knew better than to point this out or act in any way other than ready to do her boss’s bidding. “Yes, Nick?”

      “I need a large bouquet of flowers sent to AnticaPesa as soon as possible. Address them to Tiffany Matthews. Include this note…”

      12

      During the month she stayed in Rome, Tiffany rarely found the time to “go Zane” or anything else. For ten to twelve hours a day, she’d been at the elbow of Chef Riatoli, preparing sauces, making pasta, and mastering the intricacies of superior seafood preparation. At night, she was too tired to do much of anything but sleep. Her roommate at the apartment, a woman from England in Rome to perfect her Italian, tried to get her out and about to embrace the city; but aside from a couple days aboard an “on and off” tour bus, seeing such popular tourist sites as the Colosseum, Forum, Pantheon, and the now infamous Trevi Fountain, and a wonderfully enlightening afternoon at the Vatican, Tiffany could have just as well been in Rome, New York, as in the Eternal City. By the time her one-month internship was over, Tiffany was reeling with all that she’d learned, but more than a little ready to go home.

      Instead of protesting Chef Riatoli’s slave-driver schedule, however, Tiffany was grateful. The constant attention she was forced to pay in Chef’s kitchen had made her all but forget about what’s-his-name: Mr. First Class, Mr. Stiff Tongue, Mr. Disappearing Act. Tiffany had gotten her share of suggestive looks and a couple of date offers but had politely turned down all suitors. She’d conveniently left out these facts when talking to Joy. Her friend had already given her a “don’t make me come over there” warning more than once when Tiffany, exhausted but happy, would phone her with the latest.

      “Look, your learning how to make pasta from scratch is well and good,” Joy said during one of their many trans-Atlantic chats. “But don’t you think you should be working with something else long and edible while over there with all those fine Italian men?”

      Tiffany smiled at the memory as she waited for the plane that would take her from Rome to Paris and on to Los Angeles to begin the boarding process. Tuffy was by her side, as usual, but this time he was sticking out of a tote bag instead of plastered to her chest. Tiffany studied her hands as she waited, noticed the nicks and scrapes from close encounters of the sharp knife kind, and the scar that still remained from when her wrist had stayed a little too long over a boiling pot of water. These were all wounds of war, she reasoned. All part of the price paid toward her dream of owning her own Italian bistro—or something similar.

      The day after Tiffany landed in LA, the job-hunting began. Determined to pay Nick back for the twenty-five-hundred-dollar-a-night suite, plus replenish the savings she’d depleted to intern with Chef Riatoli, Tiffany scoured the papers for a job that not only paid higher than usual for a sous chef, but also would allow her to use the skills she’d learned.

      After e-mailing several résumés to prospective employers and having a few unsuccessful interviews, Tiffany asked Joy to join her at a restaurant she hoped would hire her. That evening, they met in a chic Italian eatery in Beverly Hills, with Tiffany acting the part of a regular customer.

      Tiffany’s face fell after taking a bite of her seafood appetizer.

      “What is it?” Joy asked, enjoying what she felt was a delicious minestrone soup.

      “I can’t work here.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because if they can’t turn out a simple cioppino, then how can they have perfected the scallop?”

      “Let me taste it.” Joy took a swallow of water to cleanse her palate and then tasted the fish stew. “Hum, it tastes good to me.”

      “You’re saying that because you’ve never had Chef Riatoli’s version.” Tiffany tasted another spoonful and shook her head. “The shrimp is hard, the clams are rubbery, everything is overcooked. I don’t think the herbs they used were fresh, and I’d bet my first paycheck that these tomatoes came from a jar or can.”

      “All of my tomatoes come from a can, what’s wrong with that? The people coming into this restaurant probably haven’t even heard of Chef Ravioli, let alone eaten his food. This is LA, not Rome, Tiffany. You’re not going to find the same level of cuisine here that you do in Italy.”

      “Of course I can. I just need to keep doing my research until I find the place that has that kind of standard, that’s all. And it’s Chef Riatoli, not Ravioli.”

      “Look, whether the fool’s name is rigatoni or macaroni isn’t the point. The point is that you need to stop hiding from Nick Rollins and apply to work at the restaurant in his hotel, as he suggested. You know he has what you’re looking for when it comes to Italian cooking, and you know you want to work there. I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.”

      Tiffany knew Joy was right but, true to her obstinate nature, refused to agree. “Nick Rollins isn’t the only one in LA who knows pasta,” she countered. “There are plenty of places I can work besides at his hotel.”

      “Oh really? Is that why you’re sitting here fussing over some nasty shrimp? Tiffany, what would be so bad about you calling and asking about the job he offered?”

      “If he were really serious about my working for him, he would have contacted me by now.”

      “He did contact you, in a way.”

      “When?”

      “When he sent the bouquet of flowers to where you worked in Italy. Didn’t you tell me the note included a reminder to call the hotel when you got back to town?”

      Tiffany shrugged. “Girl, those flowers were an ‘I’m sorry’ bouquet. He probably didn’t think of me past the minute it took him to stop by his secretary’s desk and give her my name.”

      “You’re scared, that’s what it is.”

      “Oh, please. Scared of what?”

      “Scared that the next time Nick gets a hold of you, he’ll put his pole in the hole and turn a sistah the rest of the way out. To hear you tell it, he had you singing soprano like Whitney on a good day. You’re not used to being handled by a man like that.”

      “I think the note was a high C, I’ll admit that. And I’ll also admit that if I go to work for him, it will be strictly cooking, not coochie contact. I’m not one to mix business with pleasure.”

      “You’re not one to mix much of anything with pleasure because you don’t do pleasure much…but I digress. Let’s put the c-word aside for a minute and look at this strictly from a professional point of view.”

      They paused while the waiter came to take away Joy’s clean bowl and Tiffany’s half-eaten stew. Soon, steaming plates of eggplant parmesan and three-cheese lasagna were placed before them.

      Joy dug into her food with gusto, savored the bite, and then continued. “What is your ultimate goal where food is concerned? To own your own restaurant, right?’

      Tiffany nodded, her mouth full of food.

      “Then what better place than an upscale hotel to make the kinds of contacts you need and gain the experience that will help you in your own business later on? I mean, besides the restaurant itself, hotels cater parties and host private dinners. At least that’s how it happens in the novels I read. You’ll probably have a variety of different menus available depending on the size of the crowds you’re serving. You’ll be able to continue to work in the upscale environment to which you’ve obviously become accustomed and, if you’re lucky, you’ll get your man back. How’s your eggplant?”

      “Better than the shrimp,” Tiffany admitted. “But I can tell that once again not all the herbs are fresh and this eggplant probably isn’t organic. But it’s okay.”

      The two women ate in silence