Natale grinned. ‘You’re doing great,’ she whispered and, balancing two coffees, headed past the bar.
Alfonso stopped to pat her arm. ‘You improve minute by minute, Maria. Just remember, not to ask if they want to order dessert as soon as their main is finished. Give them time to build up an appetite for one of Chef’s delights – then their answer will certainly be si! Wednesday is one of the quieter nights so we must encourage as much spending as possible.’ He winked before pushing open the swing door that led into the kitchen. He shouted something about the seafood tortellini going down well. At least Mary thought that was what he said. Her Italian was rustier than a shipwreck’s anchor. She squinted and saw Chef’s perspiring face become even redder. Enzo was in charge of all dishes other than pizza.
Rocco had made it quite clear she was taking dessert orders too quickly. His business strategy was the opposite to landlady Brenda, whose aim had been to keep a healthy turnover of “bums on seats”.
‘Piano, piano!’ the Italian word for slowly, he had practically shouted at her, yesterday. A sense of unease had shifted inside her. Was she already letting Rocco treat her harshly like Brenda had, back in England, or was this just a rough period until Mary could do her job properly? How could she assert herself with him? Mary had only been here a matter of days. Yet she so wanted this job to work out and if Rocco kept badmouthing her, perhaps Alfonso would change his mind and …
Deep breaths. She fingered her solid, steady haematite bracelet. She’d resolved never to be patronised at work again, and would achieve that – but all in good time.
Mary reached the pass and lifted up two pizzas. Her mouth watered, and not just because all the rushing around made her crave a snack. Each plate carried a margherita – just cheese, tomato, and herbs.
But there was no “just” about Dante’s pizzas. Several times she’d watched him prepare the dough, as he lovingly worked it between his palms. How he’d juggle it between his hands, in the air, and finally set it down on the floured unit, using his fingers, not eyes, to determine the thickness.
His workstation was immaculate, with the toppings set out in metal containers, in the same position each night. With confidence he’d smooth on circles of piquant tomato sauce, then sprinkle on snowfalls of cheese, followed by a subtle pinch of oregano – or perhaps adding one of the more exotic toppings, such as artichoke hearts or caramelised onions. A young Rossi cousin, employed as a kitchen assistant, refilled the topping bowls and checked the pizzas were properly cooked after Dante called time.
Mary breathed in the comforting smell of melted mozzarella, struggling to think of a better aroma in the whole wide world. The heat of the wood-fire oven warmed her face. It stood on the right of the kitchen, the tangerine flickering insides a primitive contrast to the rest of the modern cooking equipment.
‘Table five is waiting,’ said Rocco abruptly, as he walked past carrying a stack of plates.
Mary hurried outside. She set down the plates and smiled at the young couple who’d been watching street entertainers. Dusk had fallen and the late June night air felt warm and pleasant – and lacking July and August’s suffocating humidity, Natale explained. Nevertheless, perspiration streamed down the face of the tap dancer performing in front of the restaurant.
Mary scanned the whole piazza – the illuminated fountains and crowds strolling in between vibrant artists’ easels. A colourful Peruvian windpipe band played in front of the diners eating at the restaurant next door. Pinch me, someone, she thought, and admired the cloudless sky, lit up by stars and a half-moon. This was a dream, right? At some point she’d wake up in her cardboard box Hackney flat.
A bawling, from the table behind, attracted her attention. An English mum and dad tried valiantly to placate their toddler. The mum shook a rattle. The dad offered the little boy a spoonful of ice cream.
‘Sorry,’ mouthed the mother.
Mary went over. ‘Don’t worry. Is there anything I can do to help?’
She sighed. ‘I don’t think so – thanks. It’s very late for him, but this is our last night and we really wanted to come out. And the poor little mite’s teeth are coming through. We’ve managed to lose his teething ring and have run out of his rusk fingers to chew on, to ease the pain. We thought cold ice cream might help.’
‘Hold on … I might have just the thing …’ Mary strode inside and went behind the bar. She reached for a Tupperware box, underneath the counter. It contained several round, brown biscuits. Early this morning she’d felt the urge to bake and then handed her creations around to staff whilst they took a break before the lunchtime rush.
Alfonso had said to treat the family kitchen, upstairs, as her own, so she’d wasted no time in indulging her number one method of relieving stress. Not that she’d felt particularly anxious. It was just … the colour. The pace of life here. The gunfire that was Italian language. Add onto that the unfamiliar scrumptious smells. That view from her balcony. Rome’s cheerful weather. Overwhelmed didn’t do justice to how she felt.
However, to ground herself she’d baked the plainest of biscuits. To the basic mixture she’d added just blended oats and a little vanilla essence. They tasted homely. Familiar. Safe.
‘Delizioso!’ Alfonso had said. ‘They’d be the perfect, simple accompaniment to a milky drink, with their firm texture and wholesome taste.’
So she’d made another batch in the kitchen downstairs, just before her shift started, while Chef tried out a new recipe for a citrus and poppy seed cake. Enzo came from Naples and ordered in lemons the size of babies’ heads, from his family’s farm.
‘We work together, Maria. The English love their afternoon tea, no? You can give me your expert opinion on my new cake.’
Frank Sinatra classics belting out from his CD player. Bearded Enzo was only in his thirties but had grown up with a father obsessed with The Rat Pack. Mary’s last foster dad had loved Dean Martin movies, so they had common ground. And she was more than happy just to stay in the restaurant. The Rossis thought she might spend the morning looking around the piazza or perhaps venture out for a coffee, but one step at a time. Mary was in no rush. Piano, piano, was going to be her new motto. She’d get used to Pizzeria Dolce Vita. Then the surrounding piazza. Perhaps after that she’d tackle the underground system and investigate Rome further.
She hurried back outside and took off the lid and handed a biscuit to the toddler. Immediately the crying abated.
‘The rounded shape hopefully means they won’t jab his sore gums,’ said Mary. ‘And the taste is quite bland. Plus they shouldn’t crumble straight away …’
The little boy sucked hard and chewed. Was that a gurgle? The parents’ faces broke into smiles. Mary grinned.
She jumped when thin fingers curled tightly around her elbow. She looked left at the black bow tie. Firmly, Rocco guided her to the back of the restaurant, where Alfonso was making coffees. Mary turned to face the waiter and noticed a pale yellow bruise on the side of his neck.
‘What are you thinking?’ he hissed and shook his head, before turning towards the bar. ‘Alfonso – I caught her giving one of her biscuits to a child out front.’
‘The little boy is teething and didn’t like his ice cream – the parents were desperate to stop him crying,’ she said, in a puzzled voice. ‘I didn’t think it would matter if—’
‘We have health and safety regulations to follow,’ said Rocco and sneered. ‘Guidelines about how food is made and stored. You could get us shut down!’
Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
‘You