6
My heart sank a little when I realized how crowded the kitchen looked, what with—I counted silently—twelve people: Annamaria, Rosa, Pete, five American foodies, Chef (given how his energy can suck the oxygen out of any room, I counted him as three people), and me. Aside from the dervish in a black toque, all the others stood relatively still as Annamaria described the menu of four marinaras as though she was reciting it for posterity.
Rosa beamed. But at that moment in the crowded kitchen, I wondered what was going to happen in the morning, when the predictable kitchen chaos set in as the bustle of culinary students erupted. To navigate a working kitchen required more than five senses. You needed to anticipate atomic bombardment in ways invisible to the naked eye, including the sudden movements of knives and sizzling hot pans. Some chefs in training came by it naturally. Others through mishap and heightened anxieties—all of which affected their cooking.
“Only four sauces? Aren’t we learning seven?” That was George Johnson.
Chef smiled tolerantly. “Tonight is . . . sample.”
Biting her lip, Zoe asked, “What have you left out?”
In the breathless hush that suddenly followed, dread got slathered like tapenade on toast.
What were they worried about?
Annamaria took a step forward. “No sugo finto,” she announced. Then her eyes darted around the others. I could tell she couldn’t quite figure the mood. To her, Chef’s prima marinara, probably the single most persuasive motive for their attendance here for these four days, was just another sauce. “No sugo finto,” she repeated, flinging up one finger. Then, with a grim look, “No fish sauce,” flinging up a second finger. From her expression, I couldn’t tell whether she was disdaining fish, sauce, or the English language.
Chef caught on. “Sample include la prima marinara.”
Widespread relief ensued.
As Chef rattled off the buffet plan of attack, motioning cryptically about how to move with your dinner plate through the room, I stepped back from the fray. Crockery scraped, Americans chattered, forming a line. Rosa and Annamaria drained and served the pasta. Bob Gramm’s they drained from the smaller pasta pot and delivered at arm’s length to his plate. They acted like they needed hazmat suits. “Glootone free,” intoned Annamaria, and drilled him with a look like she was serving him his pet dog.
Pete set out the sauce samples in decorative bowls made by local Tuscan artisans. Descriptive cards—in English—accompanied each. He shot me a wink as they broke formation and crowded around the last bowl in the buffet: All it said was la prima. At last! Reverent mutterings took over. George Johnson inhaled prima speculatively—this, this was the true marinara misteriosa!—and stirred the secret sauce with his left hand, his pinkie raised like it was high tea. “What are you picking up?” Glynis nudged him. “Tomato,” he said humorously. Jenna Bond’s lip curled at Bob Gramm, who stepped in front of her. A strong reaction, I thought, but maybe the shy Jenna came to the villa with a history of being bullied by line cutters.
A tap on my shoulder.
I turned, and faced Theresa Franchi. “Buona sera, Nell.” Theresa, who married our vintner, Leo Franchi, three years ago, was an American in her midforties who had been knocking around Italy for a few years, working restaurant jobs, until she happened onto a grape harvest in Sicily and fell in love with viticulture. She’d tell whoever asked that she was just one more expat in a long history of American expats, one more leaf in the wind whose single greatest bit of luck was running into a Tuscan vintner named Leo Franchi. Admittedly, Leo was pretty great, a tenderhearted old bachelor “troppo occupato per amore”—too busy for love. A third-generation vintner whose vines were his offspring. And then he met Theresa. In Cortona, the Franchis were a couple with mystique.
Still getting to know each other, Theresa and I lightly kissed cheeks. Hers, I noticed, were stiff with the kind of worry I had seen on her from the first Theresa sighting. The Villa Orlandini had been a small customer of Leo’s age-old indescribable wines, but now we were poised to give them a lot more business, if the cooking school took off. I hoped it would help. Over the month I had known her, I watched her brush off the rainy spring, the hot summer, the ailing soil, the increasing competition—and the beloved but aging Leo.
Since their marriage, Theresa had taken over the books, but bookkeeping software wasn’t making much of a difference. To me, she had a hunted look, like what she was always thinking, just below the surface of pleasantries, was It’s just a matter of time, just a matter of time. I had seen that same look on the faces of hollow-eyed restaurateurs just waiting for their concepts to catch on. Only, someone on the outside of their difficulties, like me, could never say what would happen when that time came. Better times? Doom? More of the same, just hanging on?
Theresa had let herself into the chapel, the site of the Orlandinis’ dining room, and set up five bottles of wine and ten glasses on the elegant antique sideboard. “How’s the first class?” she asked me as she uncorked the first bottle, 2016 Chianti Colli Senesi. Her eyelids fluttered with the effort of just being sociable.
“Good, I think.”
Together, we looked over our shoulders at the sounds of approaching voices. The aroma of Chef’s “samples” announced their arrival.
“Come in!” I gushed.
Every single one of them looked reasonably happy, even Jenna, even Bob. They flowed into the chapel, spreading out a little, and held onto their fragrant, steaming plates with two hands. Pete stayed in the doorway, tacitly turning over the next program item—dinner!—to me. “Before you find your seats”—I gestured to the beautiful long table, set with soft linen placemats and napkins in the Tuscan sunset vermilion they had all just witnessed—“I’d like to introduce you to our local vintner, Theresa Franchi, who is providing the wine for the evening’s meal.”
I heard Glynis say, “Lovely.”
Zoe threw in, “Nice to meet you.”
Setting down the uncorked bottle, Theresa turned with a bright smile that would convince any onlooker there was nothing better in this world than to be a Tuscan grape-grower and winemaker. As she surveyed the hungry group of Americans, what started out as a bubbly benvenuti caught in her throat, and I watched Theresa’s face lose all its color. She took a step back, her hip meeting the sideboard, and didn’t speak.
“Theresa?” I said in a low voice. “Everything okay?”
Then her voice dropped, and her troubled eyes turned to me. “Nell,” she said, “I forgot my notes.” She bit her lower lip. “I can’t do this without my notes.” Suddenly remembering her job, she sang out, “Hello, everybody!” She brandished a bottle with the green and gold Franchi vineyard label. “Welcome to a short tour of Franchi Estate Winery, without ever leaving your seats.” If it sounded a bit hysterical, I don’t think the others noticed.
“Oh, she’s American,” Zoe said softly to no one in particular.
“I’d say from the South,” put in Bob Gramm, smiling, and pulling out a chair.
“Very cool,” commented George, but I for one was unclear what he was referring to.
“Pretty bottle.” That was Jenna.
As they found seats for their first meal of Marinara Misteriosa, I motioned Pete over to us.
Pete drew alongside me. “What’s up?”
Theresa straightened up. “I forgot my notes, Pete. I need my notes. My memory’s crap these days.”
“Are they out in the car?”
But I already knew where it was going. Your face doesn’t lose all color if the solution is a matter of steps away. She lowered her eyes. “They’re at home.”
Behind us, our guests were digging into the separate hills of Annamaria’s handmade pasta—and Chef’s four-sauce sampler—and passing the water jugs, the salad bowl, the sliced ciabatta. I had an idea. “Theresa, you will pour, Pete, you will narrate—”
He said confidently, “I know these wines.”
To Theresa, I whispered, “Jump in wherever you can add something of interest, okay?”
Bob Gramm was pointing to his plate with his fork as if it was exhibit A. “Excuse me.” He overrode every other voice in the room. “Excuse me!” I shot Pete a look that said, I’ll take it. “This is not gluten-free pasta. Did I not make myself clear?”
I stepped closer to the source of the aggravation. “Yes, Bob.” The you jackass went unspoken. “You did.”
“I am gluten-free,” he orated, slapping the table with every syllable. “Is that so hard to accommodate?” He looked around with a load of righteous indignation. “These, these”—he eyed his plate with his nose turned up—“are sections of garden hose.”
Pete intervened easily. “It’s gluten-free, Bob. It’s just not handmade. We found out about your allergy less than two hours ago . . .” Smoothly putting the responsibility right back on Bob Gramm himself. “It was my pleasure to open the gluten-free pasta box for you.”
“Well, then,” he mumbled, “just find somebody out there”—he made the kitchen sound like the Siberian tundra—“who can properly cook the stuff.”
I noticed Glynis scrutinizing him with no illusions.
Slowly, her husband returned—oddly placated—to his sections of garden hose.
Theresa, Pete, and I made a little scrum against the sideboard, our faces turned from the diners. Setting one hand on her chest, she said, “I pour.”
“I narrate,” said Pete.
Sliding my eyes in the direction of Bob Gramm, I whispered, “I drink.”
With that, we turned back in unison.
The noteless, nervous Theresa came through.
The dependable Pete came through.
And every single student in our Marinara Misteriosa class was captivated. Theresa uncorked and poured half glasses, nimbly making her way around the diners, while Pete supplied the stories about the regional grapes, and which wine paired best—strictly his opinion, he told us—with which of the plated marinara sauces, and why. While our hungry Americans sampled, rolled their eyes, and purred, Theresa added color commentary, mainly funny little stories about the Franchi family history in viticulture. She started to loosen up, and the color came back to her face.
As our Americans tasted the weekend’s great teaser, Chef Claudio Orlandini’s prima marinara, I witnessed dish devotion to the prima marinara by Zoe, George, Glynis, Bob (okay, maybe not so much), and even Jenna, which was something to behold.
“Marjoram,” voiced Zoe, chewing reflectively; “Chervil,” countered Glynis, moving a forkful around inside her mouth.
Chef entered to applause. I found myself wondering what it really meant to this man, to know he was finally opening what outsiders had clamored for: his recipe vault. I felt a little frisson on Chef’s behalf—in three days he’d be handing out a recipe he had kept secret for a lifetime, and to me as I tasted that glorious marinara sauce for myself, it felt like an admission of mortality. It felt like he was making out a will.
We ate, we drank, we spoke in half sentences, and we finished. As Rosa and Sofia cleared, the Orlandini chapel became a kind of dream sequence, as we all moved off languorously. As I pushed in my chair, I noticed the candlelight brightening a lamb in one of the stained-glass windows. From speakers overhead came the opening bars of Miles Davis’s “Kind of Blue,” which always felt inquisitive . . . Now let’s see, where did I leave those keys? I saw George Johnson press his lips together appreciatively, his eyes darting around, trying to find the chooser of the non-Italian exit music. My money was on Rosa, whose tastes occasionally opened up enough to include someone other than Billy Joel. Left to the classical Annamaria, we’d all be listening to the death scene duet from any of a number of operas.
Zoe paired herself up with Chef, following him into the kitchen. He was pleased.
Theresa came over to me. “We had a disaster today,” she confided, stepping me out of earshot.
“What happened?”
“The workmen knocked down the last twelve bottles of our 1985 Rocciosa.” Leo and Theresa were expanding the tasting room at the winery, in hopes of attracting more “wine and cheese” events, but it meant carving space out of a very old area of their wine cellar. The Rocciosa was Leo’s grandfather’s experiment—not the only one in the area—back in the late forties to combine nonindigenous grapes with their native Sangiovese stock, the definition of what became called a Super Tuscan. Strictly for private use . . . until the more robust Rocciosa wine broke out of the family kitchen. A bottle of the rare 1985 vintage brings up to $3,500. Theresa stood blinking. “Leo’s heartbroken,” she said simply. “Gone is gone for good.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, giving her arm a squeeze. “No wonder you forgot your notes.”
Giving me a grateful smile, she headed for the door.
Glynis, Pete, and Jenna headed toward the common room on Pete’s promise of a fire and a nightcap. Bob followed Theresa Franchi out to her car, not helping her carry the unopened bottles.
From my spot leaning on the doorjamb of the courtyard door, I could see nearly everyone. I truly love what I call my “found moments,” those unexpected interludes when I find myself completely alone while life goes on around me. No demands, no expectations—no talk. Turning my head slightly, I saw Theresa Franchi standing in the dim light, her arms folded, listening to Bob Gramm bend her ear. Poor Theresa. First, no notes. Then, Bob Gramm. Not her night. Out dashed the slight Sofia, presenting Theresa with her stiff straw tote she had left behind.
Shifting my gaze, I saw the last of Pete and his fire-lovers disappear into the common room. The lights went on. I sighed happily and, for just a moment, stepped out of Ardis Valenti’s cast-off Guccis, letting my eyes shut. Everyone was accounted for, except for George Johnson? Not outside jawing with Theresa and Bob. Not off in the common room sharing fire-making tips with Pete. And then I had it. Off phoning my father, no doubt.
With just an hour left to Opening Day, I was content.
My takeaway had nothing to do with marjoram or chervil. This much I knew: Time and stirring a wine-based sauce tend toward the same end. All gets reduced.
I just didn’t know an unseen clock was ticking down our remaining time together.
On that clear, moonlit night, after our American marinara lovers toddled off to their beds, Pete, Chef, Annamaria, and I met for a quick powwow on the next day’s agenda. Booked for the first full day was the wine cellar tour with Theresa Franchi, marinara sauces with anchovies, olives, and Chef, and mushroom picking with Annamaria. Then the usual naysaying ensued, at 11:20 p.m. when I could hardly see straight, but naysaying topics turned out to be scanty. Rosa questioned the quality of the anchovies, Chef declared them the finest north of Sicily. Annamaria questioned crowding the wine cellar with all the studenti at once, but when Chef agreed with her that perhaps private, one-on-one tours might be better, I could see they were both thinking about Zoe, and Annamaria changed her mind. Finally, the rest of us said our good nights and Pete stayed on to coach Chef on the first cooking class.
Coach? Was it at all possible that in his whole fifty-year career, Chef Claudio Orlandini had never run a cooking classroom? He had run top-of-the-line restaurants, he had run TV cooking shows, he had judged international competitions, he had hosted exclusive dinner parties, he had demonstrated Olympian cooking skills to select friends in the business . . . but, mentally thumbing through what I knew of Chef’s career, I couldn’t for the sorry life of me picture the guy heading up an actual kitchen classroom. Something this disturbing could only be likened to finding out that your flight instructor was a stupendous pilot who had never actually taught anyone to fly.
In Chef’s case, shouldn’t somebody here have mentioned it by now?
If anyone ever asks, there is an internal state that goes beyond dread. At that moment, as I stood wheezing under the ridiculous arbor of killer lilies framing the entrance to the main building, I felt a fatalism I had never before experienced. Tomorrow afternoon, Chef Claudio Orlandini would be entering a kitchen classroom for what might very well be the first time in his crazy life. It might take these five foodies no more than twenty minutes into a lesson on marinara with anchovies to realize in horror that the chef they had ponied up several grand to learn from doesn’t know how to delegate food prep tasks.
Maybe I should hop to my room and Google legal definitions of fraud.
I collared Rosa, who was heading off to bed, to help me drag the lily arbor to the compost pile at the back of the barn. Between us, we manhandled the thing wordlessly, managing to keep it just off the cobblestones, which would shred the cursed thing as we went. No way I was going to play cleanup. And no way I was going to let the cheerful Rosa play cleanup. We were tired. So we toted the arbor awkwardly aloft, like skulking off with a corpse, and slowed as we neared the renovated barn room and heard the raised voices through the half-open window.
The Gramms were duking it out verbally.
Rosa’s eyes widened. I put a finger to my lips, caught between wanting to tune in and not wanting to be outed by my wheezing. Although I wasn’t sure they’d even hear it. They weren’t shouting, which is oddly what made it sound more vicious. And not at all new. It was Glynis, and she sounded angry. “. . . told me it was over.”
“It is.”
“What’s this, then, a lovely parting gift?”
“Why is it always about—”
“Because with you,” she said with feeling, “it is.”
“Well,” he said, managing to sound high-handed, “maybe you should take a look at why.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“. . . cold-hearted bitch.”
A sudden intake of breath. Then came the sound of a slap. “. . . made me one.”
“Just one of your many talents.” His voice was snide.
“Mine don’t hurt.”
“Says you.” Very high-level, Bob. Wordlessly, Rosa and I inched closer to hear them better.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe if you spent more time with me—”
“Twenty-five years is plenty of time. More than plenty.”
His voice overrode hers. “—I wouldn’t need a Joanne.”
“Joanne? Who’s Joanne? I thought her name was Sheila. You told me it was over with Sheila.” Total silence. No answer. Glynis’s voice, when it came was cold. “I see. It is over with Sheila.”
“For Christ’s sake, Glynis,” said Bob Gramm, trying to bluff his way out of it, “none of it means—”
“You’re a cliché. You’re a mean, middle-aged car-selling flop, and I’m done bailing you out.” He let out a cry, and something small clattered onto the floor. “Go home. I don’t want you here. Pick up the gaudy piece of overpriced crap and take it home to Joanne. I get your bills, she gets your gold bracelets.”
“Look, you, we paid for this stupid trip, and I for one—”
“Oh, yes, you for one. You for one.” She let out a harsh laugh. “It’s always you for one.” And then: “You know, Bob, I think it’s finally my turn.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know yet. But as soon as I do, I’ll let you in on it.”
When we heard her approach the door, Rosa and I loped around the side of the barn, nearly dropping the stinking lily arbor, and I pressed my eyes shut, hoping Glynis wouldn’t head in our direction while she cleared her head. She didn’t, although I couldn’t say where she went. I wondered how much of the Gramms’ argument Rosa, whose English wasn’t very advanced, understood.
So the bracelet from the jewelry shop in Cortona was bought not for Glynis but for a woman named Joanne. The latest in what sounded like a long line. I wished we hadn’t listened. Their argument was raw and ugly and full of pain. But in the cool Tuscan moonlight, Rosa and I made our way without a sound toward the compost pile. For the first time, in the distance it looked to me like a freshly dug grave.