The pace was feverish, as openings always are. You take it on knowing you’ll eventually be rewarded, that the momentum you create during those first grueling months will carry over and everything will flow smoothly. But more than that, predictions aside, I really needed to fill up my days with this job. All I wanted was a pass full of outstanding bite-size morsels, a different selection every day, designed for minimum waste but thought through well enough to be replaced effortlessly in case food runs out and intelligently recycled if any’s left over.
The grand opening kicked off in high gear, attracting throngs of curious people. None of my hors d’oeuvres were ever left over. Déjà-vu was an ambitious project and the owners’ basic premise wasn’t a bad one. In fact, the concept couldn’t have been simpler: a ritzy place in Rome offering world-class cocktails and superb finger food, served with flair. In other words, your typical Milanese place. The owners were a recently married couple from the boonies, one aluminum step up from trailer trash and with a basically rudderless existence. They’d latched on to some gay fashionistas, and after many nights rubbing shoulders in Rome’s nightspots, where they’d learned how to dress and act real cool, they decided to turn their dream into reality.
The entrance to Déjà-vu gave onto a long room. On the left, the bar was a resin counter that rose seamlessly from the floor. On the right, some steel cages, and under the cages, a counter with white barstools. At the back of the room was a marble staircase leading to the cellar for the wine tastings, and a cast-iron spiral staircase led up to the DJ’s box in the gallery.
As far as staffing was concerned, the wife sat at the cash register, there was a barman and a barmaid (with extra staff on weekends), a waitress, and myself on the ground floor, the sommelier in the basement, and the DJ in the gallery on Fridays and Saturdays. The husband managed the place, and he and his hideous white shoes were constantly hovering. Closing time? Never.
My workstation was the continuation of the bar counter, the size of a cockpit, and as jam-packed as it was functional. Behind was the oven where I cooked everything from cannelloni to rice pilaf and canapés. I also managed to rustle up a variety of mini bread rolls — with olive oil, sun-dried tomatoes, sesame seeds, and walnuts — using an old fridge that was beyond repair as a proofer; wedged between the functioning fridges, it maintained a constant temperature of 86°, which was perfect. It was brunches and dinners on weekends and finger food and canapés on weekdays. All in all, I could happily feed up to sixty customers.
I was constantly under the gun, but I so desperately wanted to distance myself from the bleak emptiness of the previous months that I said yes to everything and took on more responsibilities by the day. I’d get up at eight in the morning, gulp down a quick coffee, grab the enormous army surplus backpack I’d bought at the backstreet flea market in Via Sannio, jump on my bike, and head for the big outdoor food stalls of the Esquilino market. By now, everyone there knew me. Often I’d send though a preliminary order by SMS the day before. Then I’d get whatever spices I needed. Green pods containing incredibly perfumed cardamom seeds, fresh coriander (sometimes called Asian parsley in Italy, even though the taste is far from the same). Thai ginger, caraway seeds (from the same family as coriander but with elongated seeds and an intense sweetish flavor not unlike that of cumin). Grains of paradise, crunchy pods that come from flowers similar to orchids, also known as Guinea pepper (but this type originating in Ghana); mace, the yellowish netlike sheath covering the nutmeg seed, whose aromatic notes are more fragrant than the fruit itself; Sarawak white peppercorns, resembling the more common Muntok pepper but far superior, obtained by removing the black outer hull and thus less pungent than traditional pepper (piperine — what makes pepper peppery — is found mainly in the hull); pimento or allspice; and herbs including savory, thyme, fenugreek, and marjoram. Advice was always welcome as I checked out unusual herbs and aromas. I was forever sniffing the creases in my palms, where all the essential oils get trapped. My fingers finally started acquiring the unmistakable calluses that are a badge of honor in the kitchen, which I had always envied in real chefs.
I tried to be economical. I shopped at discount stores, using my wits and scraping by, as I always had. I stockpiled all the semiprocessed products I could lay my hands on, which I’d never be able to make myself in that claustrophobic cranny.
Déjà-vu had absolutely no space for storing food, so I had to shop daily. I even enlisted the help of my grandmother, flying in the face of food service regulations by serving her fantastic home-made sardines cured in vinegar on crostini with fennel and orange segments.
At around ten I would arrive in Trastevere, park my bike, shed my backpack bursting with supplies, greet my coworkers, who had been on the job since breakfast, drink my cappuccino, get changed in the small locker room downstairs, and by ten thirty I’d be prepping.
By midday my pass was all lined up and ready to go. I’d continue cooking and adding the finishing touches, which I did with a theatrical flourish, because by this stage I was ready to start my one-man show. Customers would begin to trickle in. There was one guy who came in nearly every day. He dished out compliments and obviously recognized a lot of what I was making. He was an architect whose office was on the same street as ours, and he always wore arty, loose-fitting jackets. One evening, after receiving his usual plate of nibbles to accompany his martini, he handed me a small box.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a little something for you, Chef. Go on, open it.”
Inside was a flattish, oval-shaped metal object with beveled edges.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what it is. It’s beautiful, all shiny …”
“It’s a stainless steel soap bar. It will remove the odor of fish or whatever else you handle from your hands. It’s called chef soap. And it never wears out.”
I was nearly moved to tears. It was the first time a client had ever given me a gift. A gift that would last forever! All my hard work was paying off. That was all I needed to make up for the fact that this was only the end of our second month, there was still no sign of a contract, and our wages were ten days late. Already some of the staff were complaining, and I was one of them. There was nothing unusual about my working side by side with people who, the day before, had been in a completely different line of work and, in all likelihood, would move to something completely different again a few days from now. A small bunch of good-for-nothings who tired easily, had smiles painted on their faces, and submitted meekly to whoever they recognized as the alpha male. All in their first “real” job, and all claiming outstanding if not flawless skills. A mixed bag of bastards of the worst kind. No one cared in the least about anything but their own tiny domain.
As long as they saw my position as being the most secure, with decision-making power and direct access to the owners, they showed me a certain amount of respect, an attitude that I smugly used to my advantage. But when the organizational side of things started to show a few cracks, with wages in arrears and initial signs of my caving in, they started to gang up on me. The only one I had some faith in was Mattia, the head barman. He didn’t waste time gossiping and didn’t wallow in self-pity. This place is getting risky, he’d say. And the boss should stop wearing those appallingly ugly shoes and doing blow from morning to night, he would also say.
The husband-and-wife team wore worried looks that didn’t bode well for the future. You could tell they were teetering on the brink. We could see it and so could the clients. I’d started less than two months ago, but I was there from ten in the morning until almost midnight, without a break. Always cheek by jowl with the two owners. I sincerely tried to find rational solutions to the problems facing the place. To name just one: No more than thirty diners could fit into the venue at once. Our prices naturally had to match what other places were charging, but every day there were five staff members on hand to serve a maximum of sixty covers. It doesn’t take a genius, just someone who can count. I tried to avoid the boss as much as possible, with his horrendous shoes and his shyster ways. But I couldn’t always dodge him.
“Leo, we were thinking that maybe we should start charging for the nibbles we’re serving with the cocktails. And that you should be plating the dishes instead of letting clients serve themselves.”
“But … I do plate most things and I only let people serve themselves the easy stuff like the crostini and the finger food. Don’t you think it’s a bad idea to start changing so soon after our grand opening?”
“That’s the point. The clients haven’t gotten used to doing things a certain way yet, so we can say it was only an introductory offer … I mean, if you knew you could get free food, only a stone’s throw from home, for the price of a drink, wouldn’t you be there all the time? We’ve made it onto the local scene, now we have to make it worth our while. Otherwise the costs will blow out. You understand that, Leo, don’t you?”
If the costs were about to blow out after just two months in business, then we were on red alert, we’d sprung a leak, the airlock was out of action, and we were definitely sinking.
“With what I buy, I spend forty euros a day on average. With forty euros I can feed roughly forty people, and adding rice, bread, or cannelloni, I can make it to sixty. In this sort of business, you can’t base everything on the two or three freeloaders you’re always going to get. The profit is all in the drinks, not the food. At most, we could offer just one plate of free finger food per beverage, so they get food and a drink for eight euros and maybe that way they’ll order two.”
“No, Leo, this is way beyond a joke. We have to pay the bank massive monthly interest on our loan. I’ve taken time off work to set up the business, and now it’s my only source of income. In the first month we didn’t even break even; we actually lost money. If you were my banker, and I owed you more than two hundred thousand euros, and you knew I was giving food away for free, what would you do? Would you be happy about it?”
These were the words I was dreading, the words no employee should ever have to hear. These two had gone into business without a cent to spare. No fucking buffer. And they were already up to their necks in debt. No wiggle room for fixing even the smallest errors. They’d already reached that paranoid stage where they viewed diners as usurpers occupying their space and robbing them of all their hard work. We were well and truly screwed.
“Sure, whatever you say, this is your place. Why don’t we go with a choice of two plates of food, one for three and one for five euros?”
“We were thinking more along the lines of five and eight euros, but maybe we can meet in the middle.”
We can meet in the middle? Do you hear those bells? Do you know for whom those bells are tolling? This spells the end of your business, is what I wanted to say. I felt kind of sorry for Arturo, getting himself beaten up by his creditors; at least here I hadn’t got my hopes up only to come crashing back down to earth.
I shook the boss’s flabby hand and screwed my face into a tight smile that masked my true feelings. These are just growing pains, I tried to persuade myself. It’s always like this, tough at the beginning, but then things fall into place and it all works out in the end.
One morning the wife was in a gloomier mood than usual. Her husband had gone to try to cancel a check, but it was unlikely he’d succeed, because it was made out to the wine and spirits supplier. Failing to pay so soon after opening would create huge problems for us, I knew this for a fact, and if they demanded immediate payment, then we were up shit creek with no paddle. I knew this for a fact, too: When suppliers are no longer prepared to accept payment at thirty or sixty days, you might as well shut up shop and wave goodbye. Suppliers are quick to recognize when a business is going belly-up, and it’s always well before the owners do.
“How much money do you need to cover the check?” I asked.
“Five thousand euros, Leo.”
There were two possibilities: If a business doesn’t have even that much ready cash, then all you can do is dive into the deep blue sea and swim as fast as you can to avoid being sucked under and swept away by the current. Or else — somehow — scrape together the money and try to survive.
“Have you got any money coming in, Sara?”
“Yeah, Leo, yeah … In a week’s time we should be getting our hands on a new loan we’ve applied for, thirty thousand euros, so we can pay the suppliers, and with the month’s takings, we should be able to pay the next installment on our first loan.”
“Okay, then I can come up with the five thousand euros. If someone can cover for me in the kitchen, I’ll go to the bank, get the cash, and be back here with it in a couple of hours.”
What I was aiming to do was not help them as such, but win their trust and gratitude. Save their asses. If the time came for lifeboats, my name was going to be on one of them, and if anyone was going to get the boot, it wouldn’t be me. I didn’t feel like throwing myself overboard yet, I was not a good swimmer and I wouldn’t know where to go anyway. I withdrew the cash and took it to them.
It was the middle of May, I was making €1,500 a month, and none of us had anything even remotely resembling a contract. This week’s changes had nothing to do with last week’s and did nothing but dishearten the staff, who were already deeply dispirited. The name, Déjà-vu, now seemed heartlessly ironic. By evening, Mattia and I were always buzzed, if not completely hammered. Every damn night. He said we deserved to be. All I knew was that it was getting harder and harder to get up in the morning, and one day I was really running late. Instead of shopping at the outdoor market, I went directly to the discount store. I grabbed an armful of ready-made sauces, breads, and lasagna from the freezer section, and with my backpack starting to drip, I arrived at Déjà-vu just in time for service. In less than half an hour I was ready. I’d had a brilliant idea: a dunking line. Chunks of soft fresh bread for dipping in small bowls of sauce. The best part of a meal is when you mop up all the sauce at the end, right? I’d be offering it at the beginning: carbonara, amatriciana, pesto, and arrabbiata sauces. Some of the discount store sauces were halfway decent, while others, like the pesto, were merely disgusting.
I’d just tied on my apron, tucked a clean side towel over my hip, and placed the last plate on the pass when I saw the architect stroll in, the guy who had given me the gift. Fuck, today of all days! I was about to blurt out that this was a bad day, there had been some problems and … and … I froze. I just couldn’t do it. Then the boss lady arrived and started carrying on like she always did.
The architect draped his baggy jacket over a chair and wandered over to say hello. I started filling a plate for him without even asking if he wanted one, which one he wanted, or if he’d even paid for it. I carefully avoided giving him the pesto sauce. He asked me how come there were all these colored bowls and chunks of bread, what brainwave had I come up with today? I told him about the dunking concept, and his face positively lit up.
“Why aren’t I getting that one? I love mopping up pesto sauce with bread!”
“Sure, sure thing, here,” I said, without batting an eye.
He went and sat down at the counter and I went back to doing what I was doing. After a short while he came back over with his hand outstretched.
“Chef, you have outdone yourself. That pesto sauce is absolutely delicious, you can taste the fresh basil, the pine nuts, and that note of sharpness from the pecorino cheese. I might perhaps have added a touch of garlic, which as you have pointed out to me, is a natural antibiotic. But it’s excellent just the way it is, congratulations, superb.”
And then he left. Taking with him my last shred of pride and every illusion I’d ever had. I was furious.
My phone rang, the dialing code was 055, Florence. I went out through the glass doors.
“Hello, am I speaking with Leonardo?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name’s Orlando, Orlando Fusilli. You don’t know me, but my brother, Patrizio, gave me your number. You guys worked together at the Verve. Let me get straight to the point. Are you employed at the moment?”
“Yes, I am. In fact I’m at work right now.”
“Would you like me to call back later?”
“No, it’s fine, we’re quiet at the moment. Tell me, what can I do for you?”
“Look, if you’re working, then there’s probably nothing much for me to say. I’m a chef in a restaurant just outside Florence. The owners are loaded. The location’s fantastic, near Lake Bilancino, with beautiful scenery, mushrooms, fruit trees, everything. If you feel like taking a break from Rome, then it’s the perfect spot.”
“How long before you need an answer?”
“Probably by tonight, it opens at the beginning of June.”
“Damn, I can’t make the beginning of June. Even if I wanted to leave, I’d still have to give a month’s notice …”
“That’s fine, don’t worry. If you change your mind, call back this number and ask for me.”
End of conversation. And end of the day as far as I was concerned. The place was empty, and even outside there didn’t seem to be a lot of people about. Although it was still early, I decided to clean up and close my station. I’ll be back at six, I told the boss lady, I need a siesta.
My pay was late and they still had to pony up 1,000 of the €5,000 they owed me. The wife was forever tittering and flapping about, the husband snorted coke all day long and bossed everyone around, and yes, I was pissed off big time. I’d be a good chef only when I learned that a measure of your character is when you manage to steer clear of bad opportunities. And when, a couple of days later, I went out for a drink — actually, quite a few drinks, with two really cute girls who happened to be customers — I started venting. The more I drank, the more I vented.
Next morning I was barely inside the joint when the boss asked me to come downstairs with him, the usual bags under his eyes and as stony-faced as ever. Mightily unhappy, too, it seemed. He didn’t mince words and didn’t let me get a word in edgewise. He got right to the point: Leonardo, last night you went too far, you poured a bucket load of shit over this place, the place that employs you, and you did it in front of two of our clients.
I tried to reply, but all I could think of was the switch in my brain that had been on stupid for a whole year, leaving no room for a single rational move. He blabbed on, and all that registered was that one of the girls from last night went to school with his wife.
“From this moment onward, you are no longer part of the Déjà-Vu team, Leo. Gather your stuff and get the hell outta here.”
I didn’t have much to collect, my jacket was in my backpack and my smelly plastic clogs could stay where they were, in the closet. I got up and left.
And that’s how it ended.
I walked up the stairs, said so long to Mattia, gave a brief goodbye to the others and an even briefer goodbye to the wife. No mention of my money, my fucking money. I was in the right, but it stung like crazy. I’d wanted to split but didn’t know how to without being unfair, and here I was, out. Outside, in fact, just a few steps from the entrance. I checked the calls I’d received and found the only one with the 055 area code. Yes, Orlando still needed me, plus another chef. “I know a guy,” I told him, “his name’s Michele.”
As soon as I got home, I began packing for my job interview in Tuscany. I tried on a shirt, changed my mind, and put on the T-shirt that Valeria had brought me back from Brazil, the one that said NO STRESS, and hoped that the message was clear.