“Okay, then,” Bret says, giving me the file. “You two need to talk, and I’m going to tell my guys that you are putting together a portfolio of ideas for them.”
“You can also tell them we’re going to Italy to bring them the latest innovative materials applied to classic design,” I tell him.
“Val, I never thought I’d say this, but you sound like a businessman.”
“I believe in this company.”
“That comes through.” Bret gives Gram a kiss on the cheek, then June, then me. “Keep it up. You know what you’re doing.” Bret leaves the files with us and goes.
“He really believes in you,” June says.
“He knew me when…,” I tell her. “There’s something to be said for that.”
Ca’ d’Oro is closed on Monday nights, so for Roman and me, it’s date night. Roman usually comes over to Perry Street and I cook, or I go over to his place and he does. Tonight, though, he has invited my family to the restaurant for dinner, in reciprocation for Christmas, and as penance for missing Gram’s eightieth birthday at the Carlyle. This couldn’t be a more perfect setup, because I want my family to get to know him on his own turf. Ca’ d’Oro is Roman’s masterpiece; it says who he is, shows the scope of his culinary talents, and demonstrates that he’s a real player in the restaurant world of Manhattan.
When I finished work at the shop, I came over, set the long table in the dining room, put out candles and a low vase of greens and violets for a centerpiece. Now, I’m in the kitchen acting as Roman’s sous-chef. Preparing food is a respite from making shoes, mostly because I can sample the recipes as he makes them.
“So, he’s your type?” Roman places a thin sheet of pasta dough over the ravioli tray.
I follow him, filling the delicate pockets with a dab of Roman’s signature filling, a creamy whip of sweet potatoes mixed with slivers of truffle, aged parmesan, and herbs. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask me about Bret.”
“He’s a businessman in a suit and tie. Successful?”
“Very.”
“You’re still friends, so it must not have been an ugly breakup.”
“It was a little ugly, but we were friends before, so why not stay friends after?”
“What happened?”
“A career on Wall Street and shoemaking don’t complement each other. I can look back on it and appreciate it for what it was. What worked about us was our backgrounds. One of each.”
“One of each?” Roman places another sheet of pasta dough over the wells of filling. Then he places the cutting press over the dough, and punches out twelve regulation-size ravioli onto the flour-dusted butcher block. He picks the squares up one at a time and lines them up on a wooden tray, and sprinkles them with yellow cornmeal. “Explain that to me.”
“You should never have two of the same thing in a relationship. Mix it up. Irish-Fitzpatrick, and Italian-me. Nice. Put a southerner with a northerner. Good. A Jew with a Catholic, evens out the guilt and shame nicely. A Protestant with a Catholic? Slight stretch. My parents encouraged us to marry our own kind, but too much of the same thing breeds drama.”
“Two Italians?” he asks.
“Fine if you’re from different parts.”
“Good. I’m Pugliese and you’re…what are you?”
“Tuscan and Calabrese.”
“So we’re okay?”
“We’re fine,” I assure him.
“Maybe it’s the careers that are killers. How about a chef and a shoemaker? Does that work?”
I reach up and kiss him, saying, “That depends.”
“But what if you’re all about the drama? The drama of creativity and risk? What if that kind of passion is the thing that binds you together?”
“Well, then obviously, I would have to revisit my rule.”
“Good.” Roman lays another sheet of dough over the press. I fill the wells carefully. “Why don’t you go out in the restaurant and put your feet up?”
“No thanks. I like to help. Besides, if I didn’t, I’d never see you.”
“I’m sorry,” he says tenderly. “Occupational hazard.”
“You can’t help it, and you shouldn’t. You love your work and I love that you love it.”
“You’re the first woman I ever dated who understands that.”
“Besides, I’m more helpful to you here than you would be to me at the shop. I can’t see you sewing pink bows on bridesmaid shoes.”
“I’m lousy with a needle and thread.”
Roman lays a final sheet of pasta dough over the wells, snaps the press shut, reopens it, and a dozen ravioli squares pop out of the trap. He places them on the wooden tray with the others. Then he opens the oven and checks the roast pork and root vegetables, simmering in a wine reduction that fills the kitchen with the scent of butter, sage, and warm burgundy wine. I watch as he skillfully juggles the preparation of the meal. He invests himself in his work; it’s clear he is dedicated and puts in the hours. Roman also does the research. He tests new recipes and combinations, trying things out, rejecting ideas, replacing old ones with new.
Despite the depth of my feelings (and his), I sometimes wonder how we can build a relationship when we hardly see each other. I remember reading an interview with Katharine Hepburn. She said that a woman’s job in a relationship with a man was to be adorable. I attempt to be a no-fuss, stress-free, supportive girlfriend who is more than aware of the pressures he has at work, so I don’t pile on more. To be fair, he does the same for me. I figure as long as we’re both in the same place, I imagine this arrangement will work just fine and get us to the next level (whatever that is).
“Hi, kids!” Mom enters the kitchen loaded down with shopping bags. “I did a downtown shopping blitz. I can’t resist a deal, and nobody tops Chinatown for bargains. Silk slippers for two dollars.” She holds up a bag stuffed with them.
“I know what I’m getting next Christmas.”
“In twelve months, you’ll forget I bought these. Your sisters are here. The boys are parking. You’re making ravioli?”
“Tonight’s special,” says Roman.
“Yum.”
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“He’s making a shaker of Manhattans behind the bar. Is that okay, Roman?”
“Absolutely. Make yourselves at home. This night is all about you,” Roman says and smiles.
“And it’s just wonderful! We have our own private chef in his own hot restaurant cooking for us. It’s more than we deserve!”
“I’ll meet you at the bar, Mom.” Mom goes back out to the dining room as I lift the tray of finished ravioli and place them on a portable shelf on wheels. I pull the shelf toward the worktable. “You know my mother is very impressed with you.”
“I can tell. You win over Mama and you got the daughter.”
I reach up and kiss Roman. “Mama doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
Roman hands me a basket of homemade bread sticks to take out to the bar.
Mom and Dad sit on bar stools with their backs to the restaurant. Dad’s feet, in black suede Merrells rest on the lower bar of the stool, while Mom’s, in dark brown calfskin ankle boots with a high wedge heel, dangle above the foot bar, like a child’s. Tess and Jaclyn stand next to the bar. Tess is wearing a red cocktail dress, while Jaclyn wears black maternity pants and a matching oversize turtleneck. Jaclyn holds up her hand. “I know. I’m the size of a bus.”
“I didn’t say a word.” I give her a quick hug.
“I saw it in your eyes.”
“Actually, I was thinking how beautiful you look.”
Jaclyn takes the bread basket and pulls a stick from the pile. “Nice try.” She chews. “I just hit double digits in pants.”
“I should have your pants play the stock market,” Dad jokes.
“Not funny, Dad,” Jaclyn says as she chews.
“How’re you feeling?” I put my hands on my father’s shoulders.