Authors: Grace Carroll
I was reassured when Guido said we’d all participate in the class in some fashion or another. He didn’t say we’d do the actual cooking, but anything was better than nothing, which was what I’d be doing if I was home tonight.
He said that after the demonstration we’d sit around the table, eat the food and drink the wine and discuss how it all went together. Everyone would have a complete folder of all
the recipes he’d made tonight. Since I was tired after my immersion in Vienna’s funeral yesterday, I really didn’t mind sitting there watching Guido. He’d been a TV chef, a cookbook author and a cooking teacher for years. Seeing him up close and personal was worth the price of the class.
I took a seat in the front row, with a good view of Guido, his assistant Marco and his rack of tools and equipment. First Guido told us about his weeklong cooking classes at his fifteenth-century farmhouse in the Chianti Classico wine and olive oil country just outside Florence. I positively salivated even though we hadn’t seen a bite of food yet, but I imagined myself in the farmhouse rolling out fresh pasta, deep-frying zucchini flowers and simmering rich sauces on top of the vintage farmhouse stove. I had to go. Maybe I could combine the cooking classes with some shopping for Dolce.
Tonight’s menu was prosciutto, pear and pecorino salad; halibut baked in a bag with clams, mussels, fennel and anchovies; and Sicilian-scented cracked wheat. I was on the edge of my seat. It all sounded so delicious. When Guido asked for a volunteer to chop the pears and grate the pecorino cheese, I jumped up and went behind the table before he could call on anyone else. I thought he was going to hug me he was so glad to see such enthusiasm. And of course he was Italian and very demonstrative. A minute ago I’d been glad to sit and watch; now I was up in front with the masters.
I found I had a lot to learn about chopping. How to hold the knife, how to keep from slicing my fingers off. All important stuff. Then there was the cheese, where I was only in danger of grating the skin off my fingers. I mixed
up a dressing of balsamic vinegar and olive oil according to the recipe and poured it over the pears and the delicious, sliced-wafer-thin proscuitto.
And on to the fish course. I wanted to continue to help, but Guido asked for another volunteer. Was it because I had made a tiny mistake like sloshing too much vinegar in the vinaigrette so that Guido’s assistant Marco had to work with it, adding more oil then more vinegar and a dollop of mustard until he got it right? Maybe it wasn’t my mistake. Maybe it was the recipe that wasn’t correct.
Guido reminded us to always taste, taste, taste. I should have done that, but I didn’t trust my own taste buds yet. Guido said that would come with time and experience. When a new volunteer came up to take my place and work with the master, I reluctantly sat down and watched.
Guido explained how to be flexible when at the market. If your recipe calls for halibut but the halibut at the fish store doesn’t look so good, what to do? The Italian cook knows that halibut is a flat fish. I scribbled “halibut—flat fish” on my notepad. Because not being an Italian cook, I hadn’t known that.
Guido continued. “The Italian chef knows that flounder, turbot and sole are also flat fishes, and the sole is on sale. You’re in luck! And just because your recipe calls for spaghetti it doesn’t mean you can’t use linguini.”
I wrote it all down. What an amazing eye-opener it was. Substituting one kind of fish or one kind of pasta for another. Something I never would have dared before I came to this class.
“As for the cheese, you might be out of pecorino, but you’ve got Parmesan, which will work just fine,” he said.
Of course I didn’t have pecorino or Parmesan or any kind of cheese or pasta, but that was okay. I’d head for the store and stock up. Right after I bought some new pots and pans and cleaned up my new kitchen. I was filled with resolve and enthusiasm.
While the fish was baking in its bag, Guido made the Sicilian-scented cracked wheat. It was supposed to be so good for you that I couldn’t believe it would taste as good as he said it would.
When everything was ready, we all took our seats around a long farmhouse table set with rustic hand-painted plates and wineglasses. I was glad to find a spot near the head of the table where Guido had taken his place. His assistant Marco came around to heap our plates with the salad, the baked fish and the cracked wheat.
I was in heaven. Between bites I told Guido I loved to eat but I had no idea how to cook anything before I came there tonight.
“And now you will have a little dinner for your friends and show off, yes?”
I nodded. That was exactly what I’d do. I had the menu. I had the recipes, and I had the plan to inaugurate my new apartment with a small dinner party.
When Marco served small cups of espresso coffee, I decided I’d buy an espresso machine. But what to serve for dessert? I asked Guido and he suggested gelato. Perhaps he sensed that trying to make something Italian like cannoli or tiramisu would push me over the edge on my first Italian meal. Although today there was no mention of dessert.
“There are many gelato brands available here in your country,” he assured me. “Of course not the same as in Italy,
but…” He shrugged and poured himself some more wine. “Don’t forget to look over our line of cookware. I couldn’t do without it and neither should you.”
That did it. When dinner was over, I headed for the adjacent shop where the clerk was kind enough to help me choose all the pots and pans I’d need to duplicate the dinner we’d just had. I could hardly wait to do it myself.
But once out on the street loaded down with boxes and bags, I felt my enthusiasm fade. I was back in the real world where I was planning to give a dinner when I didn’t really know how to cook.
Not only that, I also didn’t know where the next crime I’d be blamed for would be committed. I set my bags down and checked my phone messages. I was surprised to find that Nick the gymnast had called. When I found a taxi, I sat in the back and listened to the message he’d left.
“Hello, Rita,” he said. “My aunt has told me about your appearance at the pizza restaurant. So you have heard about my accident? Why haven’t you come to see me? I am calling you to suggest to you a meeting outside in the good weather because my doctor recommends exercise and not staying inside resting so much, although I do not go to the gym to work just now. Tomorrow I propose to bring a typical picnic lunch of Romanian specialties of course. Can you meet me at the Palace of Fine Arts at the Marina Green near my house at twelve o’clock noon? Please tell me that you can and that we are still friends. It is a favorite place for picnic, reminding me of Romania sometimes.”
I normally didn’t take more than a half hour for lunch because Dolce needed me, but I thought I deserved a treat after all I’d been through. So I called Nick back and told him I’d meet him there. I didn’t ask what happened to his
Romanian guest/girlfriend. I just hoped she wouldn’t come along on the picnic. Not that I was worried about competition. I was afraid of being left out of a conversation in Romanian. I did remember a few important phrases from my language studies, like
Doresti sa dansezi cu mine?
It means “Would you like to dance with me?” Very useful in certain situations. But when two Romanians get together, I’ve noticed they tend to speak fast and slur their words, making it likely that nonnative speakers such as myself will be left on the sidelines trying to make sense of the conversation, but afraid to chime in.
To show off a little, I said,
“Multa sanatate,”
before I hung up, which I believe means “Get well soon,” and Nick chuckled appreciatively, unless perhaps I hadn’t pronounced it correctly and it meant something entirely different.
A Romanian picnic on the green in the sun was just what I needed. Especially when my companion knew nothing about the murder of Vienna. The subject of crime or my now-deceased coworker would not come up unless I brought it up, which I wouldn’t. Whereas at work, Vienna’s murder hung over the shop like a dark cloud. Never far from our thoughts or our conversation. Even if Dolce or I kept quiet, a customer was sure to ask about Vienna, her family or her funeral.
Maybe I was the only one who felt it, but I couldn’t help looking at every customer and wondering if she was capable of murder in general and if she’d killed Vienna in particular. Isn’t everyone capable of killing someone if they have a strong motive like revenge or lust or jealousy or hate or blackmail or greed? That was a question I would like to ask Jack if I wasn’t afraid he’d jump to the wrong conclusion—that I excused myself from killing Vienna
because I had a good strong motive. I didn’t. I had no motive at all except for wanting my job back. And jealousy over Dolce’s fondness for Vienna. I sighed. No wonder I was suspect numero uno.
Nick didn’t know Vienna; he didn’t know Dolce or any policemen. His world was all about gymnastics, exercise, Romanian immigrants and Romanian food and Romanian visitors from abroad. I could only hope he hadn’t read about Vienna’s murder in the newspaper. I hadn’t. Surely one of our customers would let us know if there was anything. I did wonder how her murder had been kept out of the papers, seeing as she was from such a prominent family. Maybe that’s how it worked: prominent families used their influence to keep ugly incidents out of the print media. Although they hadn’t been able to keep the news from the TV crew.
The next day I dressed casually in a pair of Joe’s Jeans, which everyone knows are very flattering, making your legs look longer and lifting your butt. I paired them with a print T-shirt and a jean jacket tied around my waist—though I made sure the jacket only partly covered my lifted butt. I knotted a print Hermes silk scarf around my neck and propped my sunglasses on my head. On my feet I wore soft suede spring open-toe shoe booties with dark socks.
Dolce said she loved my outfit, and she was delighted I had a lunch date. I knew she would be. She’s just like that. Always wants the best for everyone. I wanted to ask if she’d heard from William Hemlock. Instead, I told her about my cooking class and said I was going to invite her to dinner. Then on a whim, I added, “I’d like to invite your new friend William too. How would that be?”
“Fine,” she said, but I couldn’t tell if she meant it. Whatever she said, I was determined to pull it off. I’d invite some others too, like Nick, since he’d invited me to lunch. We wouldn’t talk about Vienna’s murder. We wouldn’t talk shop at all, not at my first real dinner party.
As for Dolce’s lunch, she said she’d order something from the sandwich shop and have it delivered and I was to take a long break and have a great time with the Romanian gymnast.
It was a gorgeous day, and I’d never been to the Palace of Fine Arts before. I’d seen it from a distance but never stopped to admire the reconstructed historic old building, which was built on fill from the 1906 earthquake. When San Francisco got the nod to host the World’s Fair in 1915, they held the Panama Pacific Exposition on this unstable land near the Bay. The only building left today was the Palace of Fine Arts, or rather, this rebuilt copy of it, which is where I found Nick, sitting on a bench, a large basket at his side. Eyes closed, he was wearing straight-cut jeans, a scarf casually knotted around his shirt, which was half unbuttoned, and a male purse or messenger bag hanging over his shoulder. His face was tilted toward the sun, his long legs were stretched out in front of him, oblivious to the joggers, skaters and dogs on leashes who paraded by.
“Nick,” I said.
His eyes flew open. He got up and kissed me on both cheeks, Romanian style.
“How is your tendon doing?” I asked with a glance at his leg.
“Much better, thanks, although I cannot use the high bar for a while yet. I am glad to see you again.”
“Me too. Thanks for inviting me,” I said with an eye on his picnic basket. I’d skipped breakfast today except for the coffee and a bagel that one of the customers had brought me.
So far every Romanian dish I’d ever had had been delicious—but I still wasn’t brave enough to try the pizza with carp Aunt Meera had suggested. I could only hope there wasn’t one of those in his basket.
I didn’t have to worry. After we found a spot on the grass next to the small lagoon under the Roman-style columns of the Palace, Nick spread out a cloth and opened his basket. A quick glance told me there was no pizza of any kind inside.
“You have not been to my country, no? If you had, you would know that on Sunday we always go to the country for a picnic.”
“What a wonderful custom. Americans like to picnic too. Even during the week. It must feel strange to you,” I said, accepting a small crusty meat pie Nick called
strudel cu carne
from an earthenware container he’d packed in his basket, “to see so many people enjoying the weather any day of the week.” Even I was amazed to see all these people out playing on a weekday. Did they have jobs? Didn’t they have to work?
“Strange but very nice. I am still surprised at all these American people who can picnic today like you and me without work,” he said with a glance at the passersby who ate, talked, walked or bicycled past us. “Very good country,” he added. “In Romania we mostly live in big apartment buildings, so even more necessary to go out on weekend for picnic. So once in the outside Romanians don’t sometimes know how to behave. They turn up music on small radios
so loud we cannot hear ourselves speak. Then they must cut down branches for making a small fire to grill small boxes of
mici
. After that they return to their car and drive back to the city, leaving behind a mess.”
“But that’s terrible,” I said. “Who cleans it up?”
“No one. So that is the waste that pollutes our beautiful forest and stream.” He reached into his basket and handed me a small dish of Romanian potato salad with onions and olives, and a fork.
“But wait,” Nick said, “this is not end of story. There is good news. We too have green revolution and new rules. Now people must take away trash for themselves. It is a very good idea, I think.”
After learning about the Romanian picnic culture, I was able to inform Nick about the history of the Palace of Fine Arts, which I’d researched that morning in Dolce’s office on her computer. I pulled some notes from my pocket and began my lecture.