My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,10
moment, I feel free. I consider speeding up even faster, riding until my thighs give out and I need to piss. Maybe never stopping, just continuing on forever on the open stretch of road before me.
Me, my bike, and zero plans other than exploring and seeing which way the wind will blow me. I’ve done it before, taken off to ride throughout Europe, cooking in everything from fancy hotels to food trucks and learning so much along the way. Maybe it’s been too long since I’ve done that? Perhaps I could do the same here in the States? Find new cuisines to delve into, new flavor profiles to create, and see what other opportunities the world might have for me.
My eyes glance down to my wristwatch.
Shit, I’m going to be late.
Do you even care?
The truth is, I’m not sure. I’ve been in the States for months now, lured here by the promise of running my own kitchen for an established restaurant. Sergio, the owner of Avanti Ristorante and my boss, had seemed excited to welcome me, assuring me that he was more than open to my culinary creativity, and living near my US-based extended family had seemed like a way to have some roots for a change.
The proposition had been one I couldn’t refuse.
The reality, as it so often is, is lackluster compared to my hopes.
Yes, it is ‘my’ kitchen, but I work side-by-side with a co-chef and kitchen manager, Roberta. We get along surprisingly well considering we’re both accustomed to being the top dog in the kitchen, but it still gives a sense of it not being wholly mine. And Sergio, while a good front man, has the palate of a four-year old and shows zero appreciation for my food, actually turning up his nose at the most basic of ingredients.
“I do not eat spices,” he told me, and I’d been shocked. Though my English is perfect, it’d taken me too long to decipher that he’d meant he doesn’t like spicy food. Understandably, some people don’t like heat with their food, but to Sergio, even simple black pepper can be too spicy. Ridiculous.
And then there’s the family aspect of living here. While my cousin, Violet, has been quite welcoming, she has a new husband and baby to attend to, along with her interior design business. She simply doesn’t have time to escort me around town, and to be honest, she’s rather boring with her talk of baby milestones, and disgustingly enough, my niece’s toilet habits. Calling it ‘poopy’ doesn’t make it cute. It’s still shit, even if it’s from a baby, and the last thing I want to discuss is what its color and consistency might mean about baby Carly’s health.
Which means I’m left to invitations from the aunts. And ugh, they seem to have taken a page from Mama’s recipe book and believe that me plus any available single woman between the ages of twenty and thirty-five will result in a delicious dish of love. I’ve refused the last three dinner invitations, unwilling to be ambushed by another blind date.
Still, I have made a commitment to Sergio.
Just get through tonight, I bargain with myself.
Avanti is hosting a private dinner for a local golden boy who’s getting married. Kennedy something or other. I imagine he’ll show up in a pink polo shirt with a popped collar beneath a navy blazer, have hair sprayed blond hair, a tan from golfing, and overly white teeth. So quintessentially American, I think wryly.
I pull into the back lot, parking my bike in the reserved space. There’s no sign, but everyone knows where Chef parks and wouldn’t dare to infringe. I turn off the machine, and the silence is deafening. I sigh, looking up to the cloudless sky for motivation to do this again tonight. It’s not the cooking that annoys me but the set prix-fixe menu with zero room for creativity. A necessary evil for a dinner party like this, but I’d rather create something special for a guest, something they don’t even know they want but fall instantly in love with from the first bite.
That won’t be happening tonight.
In the kitchen, the hustle and bustle of preparation is well underway, the scents and steam combining to create a wave of delicious and comforting aroma. “Hello,” I say to the assembled white-coated crew.
“Chef!” sounds out in a chorus.
I toss Roberta a wave, which she returns with a head nod, her hands never stopping their chopping motion as she dices carrots. She makes an