The Devil Served Tortellini Read online

  THE DEVIL SERVED TORTELLINI

  BY

  SHRILEY JUMP

  All's fair in love , war and pasta

  For Maria Pagliano, too much of a good thing has always been a problem. Whether it's men or carbs, she just can't say no. But that's about to change For her high school reunion, Maria's vowed to reinvent herself as a woman who has her life strictly in order. No more pasta, bread, dessert, or dating ... even if the menu offering is one sexy chef named

  Dante Del Rosso.

  Everything about Dante is off-limits. From his come-hither smile to his sultry way around the kitchen in his Boston restaurant, he's too much temptation.. .for her taste buds and her heart. Just being around the guy makes her crave more.The only thing to do is go cold turkey on Dante. But he has other ideas. Now, this devil is out to woo his dream woman using every spicy, sweet, and sinfully delicious weapon he's got. And once Maria gets a taste of the real thing, how can she possibly settle for anything less?

  ISBN 0-8217-7692-4

  ZEBRA

  The Devil's Seven-Deadly-Sins-in-One

  Manicotti with Ricotta

  1 pound whole-fat ricotta cheese

  1 egg

  2 tablespoons chopped parsley, green as envy

  2 teaspoon grated lemon rind

  Dash of nutmeg

  12 manicotti noodles, cooked until tender

  1 cup pasta sauce, homemade and tasty as sin

  1/2 cup freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano- only use the best for yourself

  Mix the cheeses, egg, parsley, lemon rind and nutmeg. Spoon into prepared noodles. Lick any excess from the bowl and your fingers ... slowly, enjoying every bit. Don't worry about the salmonella thing. This tastes too good to be bad for you.

  Come on, admit the truth, feel a bit of pride. Tastes like heaven ... or even better, like temptation.

  Drizzle the noodles with the sauce and admire the food for the scrumptious art that it is. Don't get angry about any mess it might make. Living in sloth can be very relaxing. Dust with extra Parmigiano, then bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, lusting after the dish while you wait. Remember, anything bad for you is best served hot.

  Worry about the calories later. There's always tomorrow. Indulge today. Don't bother to share. Greed is good.

  CHAPTER 1

  Maria Pagliano was serious this time.

  No-holds-barred, no-prisoners-taken, no-cheese-allowed serious. She had eight weeks to do what she'd never been able to do before-lose twenty-five pounds.

  This time, she vowed, was going to be different. She wasn't going to cheat and fall victim to her own desires. But in order to stick to her plan, she needed a little help, which was why she had come here on a Tuesday night.

  To a meeting of the Chubby Chums support group.

  In the lime green basement of a tiny church in Boston's North End, a dozen or so people sat on folding chairs in a circle. Above them, a fluorescent light flickered and hummed like a pathetic disco ball. Maria crossed her legs, panty hose swishing in the quiet, trying very hard not to think about the lone manicotti from Guido's Italian Cafe sitting in her apartment refrigerator.

  "Welcome, group!" A woman in tight jeans who looked like she'd never been tempted by a bowl of raviolis in her life stepped into the room and opened her arms wide, in an all-encompassing group hug. "And how are my Chubby Chums tonight?"

  "We're peachy with light syrup!"

  Maria looked around at the group, all laughing at their practiced pun. Had she accidentally stumbled into the Lunatics with Heart Support Forum?

  The pixie leader's name badge said, Hello, my name is: Stephanie, with a smiley face and an exclamation point. Stephanie took a seat in one of the chairs, thrusting out her hands. The group copied her, becoming a human circle of joined palms. A portly guy-his tag declared his name was "Homer"-grabbed up Maria's left hand with a sweaty palm, giving her a smile that lacked a few teeth. "]illie," a middle-aged sniffling woman, put down her stash of tissues to take Maria's right hand in a floppy fish grip.

  Then, as if on cue, the group dropped their heads to their chests and began to recite: "God grant me the serenity to accept my goal weight, the courage to resist anything with more than three hundred calories, and the wisdom to check the fat grams before I open my mouth and insert a fork."

  Goose bumps rose on Maria's arms. Bunch of lunatics.

  She should leave. But ...

  Mary Louise Zipparetto had gone from a size twenty to a size two, with the help of the Chubby Chums. Mary Louise had told her mother, who'd told Maria's mother, who'd told Maria over a cheese danish, that Mary Louise would be wearing a sleeveless Band-Aid of a dress to the class reunion to show off her new figure.

  No way was Maria going to let Mary Louise be the best-looking woman in the Sons of Italy hall. All her life, Mary Louise had been the one to compete against. The first one to get an "A" in Mr. Marcetto's impossibly hard geometry class. She'd run for class president and wontwo out of four years in high school. The other two, Maria had taken the top spot and made Mary Louise serve as veep.

  And now, Mary Louise was skinnier and planning on taking the spotlight at the reunion.

  Over Maria's dead bruschetta-fortified body.

  Maria straightened in her seat, yanked her hand away from Homer, who let out a sigh of disappointment, and started paying attention. Stephanie's hands danced around her head as she talked, dramatizing her clear joy at being among a crowd of wannabe-thin people.

  "Let's get started with a little bit of sharing! Tell us the last food you ate today and then name an animal you'd most like to be."

  Mary Louise Zipparetto. In a size two.

  Starting today, Maria intended to leave the double digits behind for good. She'd been okay with herself as a ten, but as twelve edged toward fourteen, she'd begun to dread shopping. Getting dressed. Looking in the mirror. But most of all, she now dreaded dating and the inevitable getting naked part. For a woman who enjoyed sex as much as pasta, that presented a few problems.

  Then the invitation to her ten-year class reunion had come in the mail, folldwed by a phone call that had sent tier pulse-and her diet dedication-into overdrive.

  Antonio Lombardi, captain of the football team in high school and God's gift to a sex-starved woman, had asked her if she was coming, and if she was still as pretty as the rah-rah cheerleader he remembered. He'd said something about letting him see her in just the pom-poms and she'd babbled some kind of agreement. It was, after all, Antonio, and she'd never been able to say no to him, not even on prom night.

  Over the course of her life, she'd done every diet the seven-day grapefruit plan; the all-the-meat-you-can-eat regime and the starve-yourself-until-the-dress-fits desperation diet, only to make a mad dash to Macy's and buy the next size up. Nothing had worked. Inevitably, she gave in to the first thing with tomato sauce and cheese, her diets failing faster than Michael Jackson's last album.

  But now, there was no turning back. Hanging in her closet was a little black-and very expensive dress from Saks in a size eight that she'd bought this afternoon. The dress, and the thought of Antonio eyeing Mary Louise at the reunion instead of her, kept Maria rooted to her seat.

  "The last food I ate was a tofu burger for lunch, hold the bun, extra lettuce," said a slightly pudgy young woman in a tie-dyed shirt and frayed bootleg jeans. Her badge declared her name was Audrey, with a smiley in the curve of the "y." "And I'd most like to be a butterfly, because they bring beauty to the world."

  "Sweet people are better than sweet treats!" shouted another woman. Others in the group echoed her, a human wave of trite phrases.

  A young redheaded man with the body shape of an apple leaned forward, draping his arms over
his knees. From across the circle, Maria saw he'd written "Arnold" on his name badge in pink marker. "I did good today, Chums," he said. "I had a protein bar for lunch and a power shake for dinner. I think this is it. I'll finally be down a pound this week!"

  "'Down a pound': a sign on your way to the finish line I" the group shouted. Arnold blushed and sat up a little straighter.

  Stephanie-with-the-exclamation-point gestured toward Maria. "I see we have someone new. Welcome"-she leaned forward to read the name tag slapped on Maria's russet velour T-shirt-"Chubby Chum Maria!"

  Maria wasn't so sure she liked being called a Chubby Chum. Nor did she like the way the group's heads all swiveled her way, like some mass Exorcist wave. "Umm.. .

  "New Chubby Chums are awesome!' said the group, smiling at Maria.

  "Why don't you share with us, Maria? Tell us the last thing you ate and what animal you'd most like to be."

  "I forgot to tell my animal!" Arnold cut in.

  Stephanie gave him a patient smile. "We'll get to your animal after our new Chubby Chum has a chance, Arnold."

  Everyone in the room waited, silent and expectant. Maria hesitated. She could lie. Say she'd had a salad with light dressing. But no, this was a support group. She was here to get serious and getting serious meant being honest. "I had a Guido's cheese manicotti for lunch."

  A collective gasp went up from the people in the room. "But those are fattening," Audrey said. "Why would you eat one?"

  The tempting image of the manicotti appeared in her mind, as beautiful as if it were laid out in Gourmet magazine. Stuffed and swollen, cheese trickling out of the sides, tomato sauce drizzled over the top, Parmigiano Reggiano cheese dusting the top.

  Guido's manicottis are better than an hour of sex. If Guido were smart, he'd usa-, that in his next ad campaign.

  She'd bought two of them this afternoon for lunch, before she'd bought the dress and thus, gotten serious. This time.

  "Uh..." Maria scrambled for an answer. "Today's a holiday."

  "And what holiday would that be?" Stephanie asked.

  Her mind drew a blank. Then she pictured her day planner. Tuesday, March eighteenth. "Uh, Flag Day," she said. "In Aruba."

  A heavy silence descended on the room, thick as a good Alfredo sauce. There was the squeak of a chair against the tile, then a slight cough from someone on her right.

  "Maria," Stephanie said with the gentle tone parents used on slow-witted children, "did that manicotti give you satisfaction?"

  "Well, yeah. It was from Guido's."

  "Did it satisfy your soul?"

  "It didn't hurt." But even as the words came out of her mouth, she had a feeling she was failing her Introduction to Chubby Chums test. She'd never been the kind of woman who felt out of place, or out of control, anywhere. But something about this group and their collective Borg-like minds had her off-kilter.

  "Love yourself enough to eat healthy," Stephanie said. "Your soul will be filled when you reach your goal."

  "I want to share my animal! " Arnold said. "When is it my turn again?"

  `Arnold, Maria is struggling with her food choices. Let's give her some support and then we'll get back to you."

  He slumped in his chair and pouted. "She shouldn't have had that manicotti. What kind of diet lets you eat manicotti?"

  "I just started my diet this afternoon," Maria said.

  Stephanie nodded, her lips a tight line. "After the manicotti, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Did you tell yourself, 'Just this one more fix and then I'll quit?' Did you eat that cheesy pasta and say it was the last one, like you said with all the noodles before?"

  "Yeah...

  "And do you feel guilty about that choice now?"

  "Yeah..." At least her head did. Her stomach, however, twisted and grumbled, urging her to get out of this uncomfortable, cold chair and knock over anyone who got between her and the manicotti awaiting her at home.

  "Guilt won't make you thin, Chubby Chum Maria. Only you can make you thin."

  "If it's to be, it's up to me I" the group chorused.

  "I want to be a teddy bear!" Arnold yelled. Then he flushed and shrugged. "Sorry, Stephanie. I really felt the need to share."

  "That's okay, Arnold. We're here to support, not to judge." Stephanie patted his hand. "A teddy bear, though, technically, isn't an animal."

  "But I want to be something cute and cuddly." Arnold's shoulders slumped. "So everyone will want to hug me, even if I'm ... I'm f-fat."

  "Oh, Arnold, we'll hug you, Chubby Chum! " The group surged forward, enfolding Arnold in a circle of platitudes and people.

  Maria pushed back her chair and tiptoed out of the room. Screw Mary Louise Zipparetto and her Chubby Chums. She could do this on her own.

  She was stronger than one manicotti. How hard could it be?

  Vinny's Up-in-Flames GranGala Flambe Chicken

  1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts

  1 teaspoon each salt and pepper

  2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

  1 small onion, quartered

  2 portobello mushroom caps, sliced

  1 cup dry white wine 2 tablespoons butter

  4 tablespoons flour

  2 tablespoons whipping cream

  1/3 cup GranGala imported orange liqueur-the more flammable, the better

  Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Feel the warmth as you season the chicken with salt and pepper and then brown it in a large skillet with the olive oil. Watch those flames. No sense getting all fired up too early in the process. Add the onions and mushrooms, stirring until the onions become translucent.

  Add the wine, then transfer the mixture to a shallow casserole dish and bake, uncovered, for thirty minutes.

  Take a break-Whew! That's a lot of cooking. If the boss is out, make yourself a hell of a mimosa with the GranGala and some champagne. Stand by your stove and feel the heat emanating. That's good, isn't it?

  When the casserole is done, remove the chicken and vegetables, placing them on a warm platter. Time to light the burners again! Oh, I know. It's such an exciting moment. Try not to get too mesmerized by the flames. Mix the butter and flour into a paste, add it to the pan juices, then add the cream and simmer for five minutes. Put sauce in a nice dish for serving, so everyone, especially the boss, will be impressed and keep their attention on the plate, not the flame.

  Now for the real fun. With flames. In a small saucepan, warm the GranGala over low heat. Ooh! Lighting another burner! Grab the serving platter and the liqueur, and get ready to set the place on fire. If you want a hell of a presentation, do it at the table. No one will ever forget get this meal-guaranteed. Pour the liqueur over the chicken and vegetables and then....

  Ignite.

  Warning. Keep a fire extinguisher handy. And never, ever light the liqueur too close to someone you, or the boss, want to impress.

  CHAPTER 2

  Before he murdered his sous chef, Dante Del Rosso escaped the heat of the kitchen, bursting through the back door and into the cool March night. He leaned against the brick of the restaurant facade and took in a few breaths until the urge to hurt Vinny Ozello had subsided from a first-degree felony to a misdemeanor.

  He sipped at a double shot of grappa, then closed his ryes, and waited for the alcohol to kick in. The spring air cut through his T-shirt, chasing a chill up his spine. He drank again. Unfortunately, no matter how drunk he got, he doubted he'd forget the titanic disaster of tonight.

  For six years, he'd dreamed of seeing a review of his restaurant, La Vita Deliziosa, in The Boston Globe. With more than a hundred Italian restaurants in Boston, it had been a hell of a long wait.

  And then, at half past six, George Whitman had strolled into Vita, asked for a corner table, and sat his thin white notepad beside his place setting. Dante had thrown the kitchen into overdrive, fussing over the veal scallopini, searing cutlets with all the care of a gem cutter honing a precious diamond, hovering over the sauce, ensuring it was precisely t
he right temperature, and then tinkering with the plate until the presentation was flawless.

  Then Vinny, damn him, had to go and spoil the whole thing by lighting Whitman on fire.

  Dante might as well hang up his hat now and get a job flipping burgers. After the review came out in Thursday's paper, no one would visit his restaurant ever again.

  Especially after Dante had to hose down Boston's most critical reviewer with a fire extinguisher. He could see the headline now: La Vita Deliziosa: A One-Star Inferno of Ineptitude.

  George Whitman was known for his scathing comments-and for never giving anyone a five-star rating. And yet Dante had worked for years to attract Whitman's attention because the slightest nod of the critic's approval would send diners streaming into the restaurant.

  Well, he'd certainly attracted Whitman's attention. If he was lucky, he'd get off easy-with only a multimillion dollar lawsuit.

  All his dreams, up in smoke. Literally. He'd worked for six years, trying to take what his father had started and turn it into something uniquely his. People were depending on him to make this restaurant work, and yet,, despite the endless hours he put in, he still felt like he was pushing a Mack truck uphill. One of these days, his arms were going to get tired and the damned thing would run him over.

  If he could just get a good review, some attention from people in high places, he'd thought ...

  Well, tonight had taken care of that.

  Dante pushed off from the wall and crossed to the front of the building. He wasn't needed inside, at least not tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or the next night. Nothing like a little fire to clear the place and cancel the rest of the night's reservations.

  In the sign over the restaurant, the light illuminating "Deliziosa" sputtered, then went out, leaving no pretty adjective to describe Vita. Seemed appropriate. Kind of like his life. One gaping, empty hole.

  Cheers. He raised his glass, a silent toast, and then downed the rest of it in a single gulp, searing his throat. He was about to go back into the restaurant for a second grappa when he saw a woman exit the church across the street, her coat draped over her arm as if she'd dashed out of there in a hurry. She stopped under the streetlight and scanned the road, probably looking for a cab.