My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,13
be right there,” I say, realizing he’s not talking about Valentina at all but is likely thinking I’m hiding for a long ‘smoke break’ to get out of the prep work. He doesn’t let me off that easily, holding the door open for me to pass in front of him.
I wonder if he can sense that I’ve got one proverbial foot out the door, ready to make a run for the city limits and the next thing.
In the kitchen, I wash my hands and dive in. Alessandro’s caprese salads and antipasto platters are already going out for the first course, which means I’m up.
Fresh ingredients are the secret to my success, but there are also some tricks I’ve cultivated to truly take my plates a step above. I use a large spoon to help swirl the fettuccine into a neat circle, sliding it onto the center of each bowl. Once a tray is complete, Milo works behind me to add a sprinkle of fresh parmesan and a parsley sprig to each. Finally, I eye each bowl critically, giving the final approval on them all before they’re taken to the guests.
And then the process begins again for the next tray. And then again and again.
Next, Roberta’s soup, served in small, delicate bowls with an arancini ball, a swirl of sour cream, and freshly shaved carrot garnish, goes out. It’s not the traditional progression, but we do it intentionally to offer variation of flavors based on the specific menu. Plus, it allows Roberta and me to work together on the main dish. Chicken and fresh local veggies sauteed in truffle oil is a simple but delicious recipe that lets the ingredients shine. Last but not least, the tiramisu goes out.
And service is complete. Sweaty, exhausted, but feeling good about the food I’ve made tonight, I start the cleaning process. We may not handle the dishes, but I take special care of my knives and my station like a chef should.
“Roberta! Lorenzo! Come, come!” Sergio’s voice is excited and loud, leading us both to pop our heads out to see what he wants.
“The special guests, they would like to speak with the chefs. Come, come!” He waves a hand for us to follow, and to my chagrin, I do, letting him show me off like a trained dog.
In the dining room which has been closed for the private party, I see the tables have been rearranged into a large square. Along one edge sits the bridal party. I recognize the bride and groom from Milo’s picture, though they look different now.
Kennedy is wearing a gray suit with a bright pink tie—I was right about the color, at least—and talking to an older man at his side. Next to him, Milo’s obsession, the bride is taking picture after picture of her untouched tiramisu from various angles.
Sergio walks straight up to them, interrupting Kennedy’s conversation. “Here they are! I present Avanti Ristorante’s chefs, Lorenzo Toscani and Roberta Esposita. Chefs, these are our special guests, Cole Kennedy and Claire Johnson.”
Wait . . . did he say Cole Kennedy? Hell, I even got the guy’s name wrong, thinking Kennedy was his first name. Not that it matters since they’re both last names. That’s a rich guy thing, right? I’m surprised there’s not a junior or even some numbers after his name, like Cole Kennedy the third.
Anyway, I did the special dinner party, fed the guests, and now I’ll never see him again. Still, the name tickles something in my mind. I eye the man again, trying to place him, but I come up empty.
As I’ve been eyeing the guy, I feel the prick of another gaze on me and realize that I’ve become the object of attention. Especially a lot of female attention—the bridesmaids ogling me, a few female guests getting up to come closer, and even the bride has lifted her eyes from her phone. In fact, I’m pretty sure she just took a picture of me.
I stiffen my back, ready to play the charming chef role that’s required of me. I even purposefully thicken my Italian accent, knowing it makes the food somehow seem more authentic the less decipherable I become.
“Buona sera,” I say, placing a hand on my chest and bowing my head slightly, though I keep my eyes lifted, a small flirtatious gleam in them as I meet the bride’s. I don’t mean anything by it, but making the guest feel special is always a slick move. “You enjoy the fettuccine? It is