The Devil Served Tortellini Page 10

  "You should marry a good Italian boy," Papa said, settling into his worn black leather La-Z-Boy and flinging out the recliner base like a warrior girding up for couch potato battle. "Like your mamma did."

  "Papa, I'm not interested in getting married."

  "Biba! Bring me a beer." Papa grabbed up the remote and turned on ESPN. "Why the hell not?"

  "I'm happy alone. I call my own shots."

  "Take out your own trash. Change your own oil."

  Papa flicked the channels, running through every sports show known to mankind in a fifteen-second blitz. "Sleep alone in your bed. And die alone, too, with no children around to wipe the drool off your chin."

  "I also come home when I want. Spend what I want. Answer to no one but me."

  Her mother bustled in with an open Samuel Adams and a glass. She put them down on the metal TV tray beside Papa, smack dab in the center of the impressionist painting of Boston Common. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the butt. "Grazie. "

  Mamma smiled at Papa, gave Maria the cold, you'vedisappointed-me-again shoulder, then headed back to dishes and dinner cleanup. As long as Maria could remember, it had been this way. Dinner was served precisely at six. Papa would get home from his shift at the phone company, eat, murmur his appreciation, then retreat to the recliner for a beer and the game. Didn't matter what team or what sport-he watched them all until the beer kicked in and he fell asleep in the chair. When Mamma finished cleaning up, she'd work on her quilting for a while, then nudge him awake so the two of them could climb the stairs to bed.

  Not the life of romance and passion Maria wanted. That kind of predictability would make her run screaming and naked down the Callahan Tunnel.

  She'd almost fallen into that trap with David and learned pretty damned quick she wasn't cut out for "married life." Especially when he'd slept with that stripper on her dining room table. If that's what being committed to someone was like, she'd much rather be committed.

  Papa took a swig of beer, ignoring the glass. Mamma always brought him the glass, and he always ignored it. It was as if Mamma hoped someday he'd grow into civilized behavior.

  "What Mamma and I have is good," he said. "Like pasta and gravy. It goes together, and doesn't give you too much heartburn." He tipped the bottle in her direction, Sam Adams nodding agreement.

  "Nothing against you and Mamma, but I just don't want what you have."

  "You're breaking your mamma's heart." Papa scratched at the stubble on his chin, considering her, the Celtics temporarily forgotten. "A girl who says she doesn't want to get married either goes into the convent or starts wearing those army shoes. You know..." He lowered his head, hinting at an answer he didn't supply.

  "No, I don't. What are you talking about?"

  "Those type of girls wear the boots because they're buttering their toast on the wrong end of the loaf."

  Maria let out an exasperated sigh. `Just because I don't want to get married doesn't make me a lesbian."

  Papa leaned back in his chair, the beer back at his lips. `Just as long as you're shopping in the right bakery."

  Mamma hurried in again, this time with a roosterdecorated plate of biscotti. She put them on the tray, then topped the dessert delivery with another peck on Papa's cheek. "Dessert for you."

  "Ah, you always know what I like." He kissed her back. "See, this is marriage," he said to Maria. 'Two people who know each other so well, they never have to say a word."

  "Except..." Mamma quirked a brow.

  "Ti amo. "Papa grinned and gave her another kiss.

  She whispered the same words back, holding his gaze for a long, private second, then left, still avoiding her disappointing daughter.

  Maria tried not to grimace as Papa dove for his nightly beer and almond cookies snack. The combination was disgusting, but Papa had the stomach of a goat and never seemed to notice the odd juxtaposition of sweets and hops.

  A second later, her grandfather followed the scent of the cookies down the stairs and into the living room. Nonno took the seat opposite the TV tray, grabbing a couple of cookies from the plate. "You watching the game?" he asked Maria.

  "Nah. We're talking about Maria not wanting to get married."

  "Ah." Nonno nodded. "Has your mother made the soup yet?"

  The damned soup again. "I'm not going to get married just because of something I ate."

  Her grandfather shrugged. "Your Nonna's mamma, she made me the soup. I proposed the next day." He nodded. "The soup, it works."

  Maria lowered herself to her knees beside her father's recliner. "Papa, you have to talk to Mamma for me. She won't listen to a word I say and she keeps trying to fix me up with Dante. Not to mention every single man under the age of eighty in the North End."

  "I remember him, the day he come to see you. He seemed like a good man, that Dante," Nonno said. "They don't grow on clotheslines, you know."

  Papa changed the channel again. "Damn! You idiot! Get that shot, you-"

  "Papa! "Maria waited until her father's attention left the Knicks and came back to her. "She's getting desperate now. She told Gerry, the checkout boy at Paulie's Grocery, to keep an eye out for a husband for me."

  "Your mamma cares about you." Papa slammed his beer down on the table. Sam spewed a few drops across the metal surface. "Merda! What's that coach doing? Sleeping?"

  Maria ignored the rhetorical question and pressed on. She'd had no luck getting through to her mother. Her grandfather seemed to be on Dante's side, and Nonna had never been able to convince Mamma to do anything. Papa was her last resort.

  When Papa laid down the law, it stayed there, like a road of steel. If he told Mamma to back off, she would.

  There were, Maria had to admit, some advantages to a traditional Italian marriage. Though she'd never opt for one, not if it meant being a chicken under a rooster who couldn't be bothered to peck up his own kernels.

  "Papa, Gerry is seventeen. Mamma gave him my address. Every senior from Sacred Heart has been at my door this week, asking me to the prom."

  "You'd look nice with a corsage," Nonno said.

  "Mamma means well," Papa changed the channel, this time settling on a boxing match. "Madonn! Get off the ropesl You have the brains of a fleal"

  "Papa. Papa!"

  He flicked a glance at her. "What?"

  "You have to talk to her. I don't need her help finding a husband. I don't even want a husband."

  `fabl Use your jab! No. The right! Get him with your right!" Her father's face had started to turn red.

  "Your blood pressure," Maria warned. "Remember what the doctor said."

  Papa scoffed. 'That doctor should watch Lennox Lewis once in a while. Then he'd see why I have high blood pressure." He punched a fist forward. "Uppercut! Get the chin!"

  "Papa, about Mamma-"

  "Your mamma means well," Nonno said. "And she knows you better than you know yourself."

  "Get off the ropes!"

  Maria rose. It was no use. "I'm going now. Enjoy the fight." She turned to leave.

  Papa grabbed her arm. "I'll talk to your mamma," he said. "But it won't do any good."

  'Why?"

  "Because she's right. Your mamma's a smart woman. Avery smart woman." He nodded. "And she knows what's good for you."

  Maria shook her head. "Marriage is not what's good for me."

  Mamma hurried in with a second beer, made her delivery, then went back to her kitchen.

  Papa picked up the frosty new Sam Adams with his free hand and took a sip. He kicked back a little farther in the recliner and replaced the beer with the remote again. "I don't know why not. It's pretty damned good to me."

  Franco's Deception-in-One-Dish Milanese Veal Chops

  2 ounces pancetta, cubed

  1/4 cup unsalted butter

  4 veal cutlets, tender like a lying tongue

  1/4 cup bread crumbs, as fine as your tall tale will be

  Salt and pepper

  1 cup dry white wine, to soothe the lie
s on your palate

  1 onion, minced

  1 carrot, minced

  1 celery stalk, minced

  2 tomatoes, peeled, seeded and chopped

  1/2 cup chicken broth, clear as your conscience

  Lemon wedges

  Cook the pancetta in the butter until golden brown and magnifioo. Dredge the veal in the bread crumbs. Shake off the messy extra. No need to clutter your mouth with clumps. Brown the veal in the pan, then season with salt and pepper.

  All the while, cook up an interessante story to bring two lonely hearts together. You aren't lying, you are ... creating a happy ending. It's a good thing.

  Remove the veal to make room for the vino. Deglaze the pan with wine, then cook the onion, carrot and celery until the onion is as gold as the halo over your head for doing such a good deed for your friends.

  Bring the veal back and marry it with the vegetables. Add the tomatoes, cover and let everything be happy together for oh ... an hour and a quarter or so. Long enough to come up with a story to send one running into the arms of the other. Your swans will find each other across the pond because the power of amore is stronger than a silly, stubborn mind. Be sure to check on it from time to time, adding a tablespoon of the chicken broth or so, to keep your sauce from drying up

  Serve hot, with lemon wedges for a little tartness. Like your lies, this dish has layers of truth beneath the surface. When they dig in, they find it. And they find each other, in their happy smiles.

  And everyone will say Franco, he was right.

  CHAPTER 14

  Franco bustled around the tables, straightening place settings, fixing the flowers in the vases and tilting candles upright. "We miss something."

  "What?" Dante looked up from the table where he sat planning the next few nights' menus and specials. And trying not to think about the unfinished business between Maria and him.

  For nearly two weeks, he'd left her alone. Hadn't even checked to see if she was across the street. He'd thought after what had happened in her apartment, and on the church steps, that she'd make a move next, because tie'd left all his balls in her court.

  But

  "A sweet. We need something sweet."

  Yeah, he needed a sweet. Another sweet kiss like the one he'd started-and like an idiot, not finished-in her apartment. He'd thought he'd be leaving her with something to think about. A few regrets, a steam of desire. Instead he'd left himself in a constant state of agony.

  He shifted in his seat and went back to the menu.

  "We have desserts on the menu," Dante said, wishing Franco would go away and leave him to his misery. "I was thinking of adding a walnut and ricotta cake to-"

  "No, no." Franco waved a hand at him. "Something. . . ma petite." He pinched his fingers together.

  Dante eyed the maitre d'. Franco rarely gave input on the menu. In fact, Franco was usually pretty content to stick to his job up front and leave the rest to everyone else. All of a sudden, he was spouting dessert ideas? "What have you got cooking?"

  "Me?" Franco raised a brow and shrugged a shoulder. "I cannot cook."

  "You have something in mind, though. Quit dancing and tell me what it is."

  Franco directed his gaze at the place settings instead of his boss, as if perfecting the flair of the napkins was infinitely more important. "I know a shop that makes perfect little cookies. Just right for an after dinner delight."

  Dante considered this. "Instead of mints? Or chocolates like the other restaurants do?"

  Franco nodded. "A little Vita Deliziosa to go."

  Dante nodded, then went back to the menu, crossing out the fish for Tuesday and substituting a veal. Carlo's Fish Market hadn't been up to its usual freshness standard, not since Carlo had gone on the lam in Italy with the maid. While wrapping a swordfish-and nearly beating the poor dead pesce spada into unrecognizability with the plastic wrap machine-the usurped wife had told Dante she'd be gunning for Carlo with a tuna as soon as he landed at Logan. Until Dante could find a new fishmonger-or Carlo solved his two-honey housekeeping mess-Dame was going to stick to non-swimming menu items.

  Above his shoulder, he could feel Franco waiting for an answer. "I'll look into it."

  "No need to think." A box appeared in front of him, open to reveal several chocolate thumbprint cookies that had raspberry jam in their centers. The scent of the jam wafted up to greet him, teasing at him to take a bite. "Try."

  Dante sighed and pushed the menu to the side. "Persistent, aren't you?"

  Franco didn't answer.

  It certainly wouldn't hurt to eat one. He hadn't had time for breakfast or lunch yet today. Dante put his pen down and picked up a cookie, taking a taste. "Not bad. Where'd you get them?"

  "Oh, nowhere." Franco fluffed at a carnation in the center of the table.

  Dante closed the lid on the box. Imprinted in gold script were the words "Gift Baskets to Die For." Franco was a matchmaker with all the stealth of an elephant trying to sneak up on a kitten. "Maria's shop?"

  "Oh? Is that who works there?" He fluttered a finger at the flower's tip.

  "She co-owns it."

  "Interessante!"

  "Franco, you're the worst liar I know."

  "Franco does not lie." He bustled over to the front desk and straightened the pile of menus. "Much," he added in a mumble.

  Dante took another nibble of the cookie. "They are good. "

  Franco bustled back. "The best."

  "They would make good thank-you gifts for our customers," Dante said.

  "Magnifico. "Franco kissed the tips of his fingers.

  "And I do know one of the owners."

  "And you have to see her many times to work on these. To make them perfect." He grinned.

  "You never give up, do you?"

  "Me?" Franco took a cookie from the box and bit into it. "I like cookies, nothing more." Then he walked away, humming a Dean Martin song under his breath.

  Dante returned to his menu but his mind was no longer on the Milanese Veal Chops. He tossed the pen to the table and got to his feet. Franco was right, though damned if Dante was going to admit it and eat crow for a month.

  It was time to add a little sweetness to his Vita.

  Rebecca's Take-a-Chance-on-Your-Heart Stuffed Artichokes

  6 large artichokes

  I teaspoon lemon juice

  3 slices day-old bread, ground into bread crumbs

  3 anchovy filets

  2 cloves garlic

  2 tablespoons capers, rinsed and minced

  3 tablespoons fresh parsley, chopped

  4 tablespoons olive oil

  Salt and pepper

  6 tablespoons olive oil

  6 tablespoons water

  Just like with a man, remove the outermost spiny leaves of the artichoke to get to the best layers beneath. Cut off the stem and the tips of the tallest leaves, then hollow out the inner bristly "choke." Now you have the best of the artichoke, without all those silly walls it puts up to keep from getting hurt.

  Put the prepared artichoke in a bowl of water deep enough to cover them, adding the lemon juice while you're working on the stuffing. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Mix the bread crumbs, anchovies, garlic, capers, parsley and four tablespoons of oil together. Season with salt and pepper. This is the stuffing that will bring out the best of your artichoke. It's like the final ingredient you bring to the perfect match for your heart.

  Drain and stuff the artichokes. Place them stuffed side down in a roasting pan, close enough to snuggle together. Mix the oil and water and drizzle over them. Trust me, this will be wonderful.

  Cover tightly with foil and bake for an hour. When it's done, the artichokes will have tender hearts, filled with flavor and bursting with joy. Everyone deserves a happy ending, especially when it's waiting right under their noses.

  CHAPTER 15

  Hell, Maria had decided, was a constant diet, filled with nothing but vending machines stuffed with diet sodas and lettuce. She walked over to Gift Bask
ets in the early Friday morning April sunshine, avoiding the Big Dig construction and a few hoots from the orangevested workers. She picked her way past the pothole puddles and faux Rolex vendors hoping to convince the tourists a bargain could be found under the old Central Artery.

  She shouldn't have walked to work. She should have traveled in a bubble. The constant smells of the bakeries, the rolling cart vendors, the breakfast restaurants-all nearly undid her.

  Three weeks of hell. And seven damned pounds to show for it. That wasn't enough to make a dent in the way her panty hose fit, never mind her pom-poms.

  A businessman strode by her, a six-pack box of Dunkin' Donuts in his hand, and she nearly tackled him out of need.

  Finally, the shop came into view. Maria ducked inside and shut the door, backing herself up against the glass, lest she be tempted to run back outside and assault the doughnut-bearing investment banker. "I can't be alone out there," she said.

  "Crime up in your neighborhood again?" Rebecca asked.

  "No. Damned bakeries are increasing their aroma output."

  Rebecca nodded, her brown ponytail swinging in emphasis. "That'll do it. Maybe you should take to wearing a gas mask."

  "Oh, that would be attractive."

  "You could call it smog apparel. Start a new trend. Make millions."

  Maria came away from the door and crossed to the coatrack. She hung up her coat, then stowed her purse behind the counter. "And retire someplace where no one can cook and the only food product is salad fixings?"

  "When you're rich, everyone loves you, even if you're as big as the Prudential building."

  Maria joined Rebecca at the counter and helped her set out the new display of gift items for spring. "So you're telling me I should get rich instead of thin?"

  "Come on out back, and while we talk, help me with this basket order so we can both get rich."

  Maria followed Rebecca and the two of them set to work on a birthday basket for four-year-old Timothy Barnes. The eighteen-inch parental guilt gift was just big enough to hold the mother lode of toys Timmy's mom had purchased, along with candies and treats. Rebecca was delivering it to Timmy's classroom later that afternoon, timed to induce proper classmate envy and one-upmanship in the swanky Charlestown neighborhood where the Barneses lived and competed with the Joneses.