In January 2009 Michele married the green-eyed American girl. She had a twinkle in her eye that didn’t bode well. Everyone thought it but no one said it out loud. I tried, without much conviction, and as expected I failed to convince him. Angelo, an old friend of mine, in the meantime had got his degree in anthropology and left for Brazil to work on a project for international cooperation. I was tired of the same old routine, and in February I decided to visit him. I talked about it with Michele and the owners. I’d be away for more than a month, but I wouldn’t leave until everything was sorted out in the kitchen. Both Michele and the owners said that it wouldn’t be a problem. Perewa couldn’t cover my station on his own, so he would be flanked by Fabrizio, a young guy and a massive heavy-metal fan, who had dropped off his résumé a few weeks earlier.
From: Leonardo Lucarelli
To: Michele Savio
Date: March 6, 2009, 12:28 a.m.
Subject: irmão
Hello, my wonderful chef friend!! What can I say? I’m happy, happy, happy.
Everything fills me with joy: the weather, the people, even the Italians I’ve met here working on the project, the carnival, the women, smooching like a kid, the samba, the food, these incredible mornings, my Italiany Spanish that’s turning into Italiany Portuguese and seems to be working out just fine.
And I’ve met a beautiful mixed-race girl, Aymara. Even her name is beautiful. A vivacious, silky-soft 22-year-old with hair that’s a mass of tight curls.
But you don’t need to worry, you really don’t. I’m drunk on happiness, but luckily I haven’t forgotten that even back in Rome I used to say I was happy, which eases that nagging fear of coming back that’s already creeping into my mind.
Yesterday I went to a favela and cooked for the whole neighborhood, and I even managed to bake some great bread thanks to the Italians who’d brought the starter over with them on the plane. Here everyone eats just one dish, and it’s taken me a while to make them understand the concept of appetizer, main, side dish, and dessert. It’s like … you know, when you can’t quite decide if what you’re feeling is joy or pain, maybe both. Anyhow, try to imagine a whole community made up of 150 families living next to a dump, with no running water, no bathrooms, no fridges (and mind, we’re at the equator), no social dignity (many don’t have documents and don’t know how to read or write). These people have absolutely nothing and yet they have these huge smiles, and you know your camera is worth 5 years’ income for a family of 10 people…
So how about you?
All cooking, love, marriage? How about the Testaccio, any new chefs? What’s happening? And the waiters?
Oh, and do you miss me in the kitchen? Just a bit?? Are my text messages getting to you?? You never answer them, you dog…
See you soon, buddy. Let me know what’s going on in my beautiful home town and get everything spick and span for when I get back.
Seu irmão,
Leo
From: Michele Savio
To: Leonardo Lucarelli
Date: March 6, 2009, 1:16 p.m.
Subject: irmão
Thanks for your great e-mail — I got a real kick out of it!
Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. It wasn’t to make you think we’re so busy I don’t have the time. It’s just that we really are, busy that is, but I’m happy just the same. We’re doing well, things are moving along, and the atmosphere is relaxed and peaceable, at least as far as the chefs are concerned. Francesca, the new waitress, kicked off with the usual “… nooo … yeees … I know you said those dishes were for table 10 but I took them to table 5 … because, well, because they ordered them first … but, but …” In here we need people who aren’t just willing and able, but won’t mess up the restaurant or, more important, me.
No one can be a prima donna in here, especially a newcomer, and when the going gets tough, we all have to get our act together. There are certain displays of respect that make me truly admire people. Take Sampath: Sri Lankan rice is one example of his strength of character. When asked, “Who cooked this rice?” he proudly answers, “All of us,” which is partly true, and partly it’s an answer that looks ahead to a place we are all aiming to reach. I mean, what’s more important than Sampath becoming famous for his rice or whatever is that we all recognize and reproduce the same excellent food. And it would be a major step forward if everyone could genuinely comprehend the secrets behind the great dishes that someone puts out before they become famous for being so talented. You asked about the others? Well, Fabrizio (the chef who’s replacing you) has an incredible gift for remembering orders, he’s without equal. Perewa still believes in precision and attention to detail — which I deeply appreciate (unlike you). Mamun manages to wash mountains of dirty dishes and pots and pans all by himself, and yesterday he celebrated his eighth wedding anniversary by phoning his wife who had just finished saying her prayers at 5 in the morning. Even though he’s exhausted, he always gives me a smile when he hands me a cup of tea. And I’m sincerely grateful to him.
When you get back, we’ll have to talk, because Fabrizio and Perewa have actually managed to make themselves useful without carrying on like prima donnas. There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, Leo. I’m learning this now, and it was partly you who taught me. I imagine (and hope) you can read between the lines.
I’m glad to hear you’re so happy.
Ciao!!!
Mic
I was wearing shorts and black-and-yellow Havaianas, a backpack sat next to my chair, and the whole of Brazil was at my doorstep. I reread Michele’s e-mail because I wasn’t sure I’d understood it properly. My head was throbbing and not because of the humidity. Michele had just screwed me over, among the winks and nudges and exclamation points, this was what I gleaned: I’d been let go from a contract I didn’t have. If only I weren’t so full of shit, I could become a great chef. Sandro had been right all along.
Michele was an asshole and a coward who didn’t have the guts to tell me to my face during those last few months, and waited until I had left to send me this shitty e-mail. That was my first thought. My second was: Maybe I’m just not good enough. Which anyone with the slightest sense of reality sooner or later ends up muttering to himself in a crisis situation. Sooner or later you have to face up to the possibility that your ambition might outweigh your talent.
Shit. I’d return to Italy without knowing what to do next. On the other hand, all this made perfect sense. Usually most people’s greatest achievement is to feel adequate — big dreams are just crap. My worst sin, since moving to Tuscany, had been to make Michele feel nothing but inadequate. How long did I think he’d put up with feeling that way? When you play Russian roulette, the problem isn’t whether the shot will fire or not, it’s when.
In the end, the one who had to go was me, because it doesn’t matter what you think you’ve learned. What matters is who the chef is, and that’s life.