Lost in Rome (11 page)

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“He took off,” Rico said. “I don't think we have to worry about him anymore today.”

“Today,” I repeated. “What about the rest of the week?”

“What's your plan to get even with him?” AJ asked.

“The details are still coming together in my head,” I said. “This type of genius takes careful consideration, but it's gonna be good.”

“To the Piazza di Spagna and the Spanish Steps,” Rico said, starting up his scooter, the back end of which sagged due to a cooler with four heavy jugs of crushed tomatoes.

He gave us a forward wave and rode off. Slowly.

The other motorists honked at us, and a few yelled. Luckily, I couldn't understand their Italian. Slow was not the Italian way of driving. A group of teen boys on bicycles chuckled as they pedaled past us.

I had come here to the Spanish Steps the last time I was in Rome, but that was such a long time ago that I hardly remembered. The Piazza di Spagna was huge and very crowded. The Fontana della Barcaccia sat in the middle of the piazza. People of all ages sat on the edge of the fountain, sipping coffee or eating granitas or gelato with little plastic spoons. Shopping bags from Fendi, Prada, and Gucci sat on the ground next to them.

Behind the fountain was a grand staircase—I mean it was
HUGE
, and beautiful. I didn't count, but it looked like more than a hundred massive stone steps. At the top was an ancient church. Flowers—pots of colorful violets and daisies—lined the steps on either side.

Ladies in flowing skirts, carrying baskets filled with long-stemmed red roses, strolled up and down the steps. When they saw a couple posing for a photograph, one of the ladies would encourage the man to buy a rose for his date.

“We have to go up there.” Rico pointed to the top of the steps. “There are shops. One of them sells herbs.”

As I followed Rico up the steps, I was totally overcome with déjà vu. You know the feeling like you've been somewhere or done something before? Well, I had actually been here before, but it was more than that—I felt like I had been here before
with Rico
. And as fast as the feeling came, it left.

AJ and Gianna walked up too. Our climbing was interrupted by a woman selling roses from a basket. “For your girlfriend?” she asked AJ.

“Oh, she's not my girlfriend. She's a friend.”

The woman said, “And she's a girl. So, she is your girlfriend. Buy her a flower.”

“Um . . . er . . . um.” AJ couldn't form a single non-mumbled word.

“No, thanks,” I said.

We caught up to Rico and Gianna, who were taking a rose from a different woman. I imagined Rico couldn't say “No, thanks” either, and Gianna probably really wanted the rose.

The woman handed one to me.

“No, thanks,” I said again.

“Oh, you take this. You are Maria Rossi's niece,
sì
? You must have a rose.”

“How did you know that?” I asked.

“It's all she's talked about for days, and you look just like her.”

I took the rose. “What do we owe you?”

“Nothing. I'd do anything for Maria.”

“Wow. Thanks.” I wondered what Aunt Maria had done for her.

“I am Carina.” She shook my hand.

“Hi. I'm—”

“Lucy. I know. I hope you have a wonderful visit.” She turned to another customer after saying “
Ciao
” to us.

We made it to the top of the steps and found the shop that had the herbs for the sauce. Thankfully, herbs were much lighter than jugs of crushed tomatoes. Then we headed back to Amore Pizzeria, with the tomato jugs weighing us down. After safely tucking the coveted ingredients way in the back of the walk-in fridge, we all helped with the few remaining dinner customers.

“Do you need me to, you know . . . make any matches?” I asked Aunt Maria.

I followed her eyes to the dining room. “Is all taken care of,” she said.

There were couples holding hands, giggling, smiling, and exchanging phone numbers.

“How did you do that?” I asked her. “How did you know who to match with who? I didn't ever show you my notes.”

She rang up two customers at the cash register. “
Grazie
,” she said to them. They walked down the cobblestone alley arm in arm.

“The notes do not matter. Is not like sauce. There is no recipe you can follow,” she said. “It is a feeling. A gift.”

“Matchmaking is a gift?” I asked.

Aunt Maria smiled. “
Sì
, one that runs in the family. You aren't the only one who knows the matchmaking.”

I couldn't believe it. “Whoa! You can do it too?”

She laughed. “Yes, I can.”

“That is, like, cool with a side of oh yeah!”

“Right. ‘Cool,' ” she said. “Yeah.”

“I can't believe this! Why didn't you tell me sooner?” I asked.

“Meddling in matters of love is big responsibility. Some matches go wrong. I know this.”

“But lots go right.” I pointed to the backs of the couple who had walked out a minute ago.

“Oh, I know. I make many, many good matches, but then I stop.”

“Why?”

She looked at the clock. “For another day,” she said, and reached under the counter. “But look at this.” It was a basket with three envelopes.

“What are those?”

“Letters from people asking the Pizzeria Matchmaker for help,” she said. “They think you are the new Beatrice.”

“Who's Beatrice?”

“I tell you the story later. You are not the only one who can tell the story. That run in the family too.”

“We have a lot to talk about,” I said.

“
Sì.
We will talk while we make the sauce.”

Then she pulled a large piece of laminated paper from under the cash register. “Salvatore the deliveryman leave this here on the counter today.” She handed it to me.

“The happy guy who brings meat and bread? He brings menus, too?”

“
Sì.
Salvatore. He bring everything. That is the job of the deliveryman.”

“I guess,” I said. I thought it was a little strange that he would deliver pasta
and
menus—very different things.

She pointed to an item on the menu—the New York—that I had added. “What is this?”

“It's great,” I said. “I'll show you how to make it.”

“I hope you will. Now, we better start on the sauce. It take six hours.” Aunt Maria announced, “No big dinner tonight. Me and Lucy, we make the sauce. We will eat while we clean up.”

I followed her into the kitchen.

Vito had a big pot of leftover spaghetti. He put some on a plate and cut it up for Meataball, then made a plate for himself.

I took a round roll and hollowed out the soft middle. Then I filled it with spaghetti, sauce, and mozzarella cheese. I set the other half of the roll on top and pushed down.

“What you doing?” Aunt Maria asked.

“It's a spaghetti Parmesan sandwich. I made it up.” I took a bite.

“Mamma mia.”

“It's good.” I handed it to her, and she took a bite.

“
Sì
. It is good,” she agreed. I think she was surprised she liked it!

I made one for everyone.

AJ bit into his. “It's the perfect way to take spaghetti on the go. The only thing that would be better would be if we could put it on a stick.”

I thought about this while I cleaned. Spaghetti on a stick? Good idea! Could it be done?

With everyone helping, it didn't take long to reset the dining room for lunch tomorrow.

Aunt Maria waved her arms. “You are all done with the cleanup.
Grazie
. Now, you go. Lucy and I have to work.” She shoved everyone out the door.

The gang left. Aunt Maria locked the door behind them and turned off the lights except for the kitchen. “Get the ingredients.”

I did as directed while Aunt Maria lifted a huge metal pot akin to a cauldron onto the stove. She slid a little step stool over so that she could get high enough to see inside the pot.

She poured in olive oil without measuring and put the burner on low-medium while she showed me how to use a garlic press.

She said, “You put the garlic in the oil.” She waited for me to press seven cloves and add them to the oil. I added it carefully and snapped my arm back when the garlic popped and sizzled.

“Now you stir.” She took a very long silver spoon off a hook on the wall. “Only this spoon.”

“How come? Does it have some special Italian magical power?”

“Always with the story, you are,” Aunt Maria said. “It is the spoon I always use to make the sauce, and the sauce is always good, so that is the way to make it.”

“My explanation is much more interesting.”

“
Sì,
” she said. “But just a story.”

We carefully worked through the rest of the secret recipe, adding tomatoes and herbs. She measured nothing, and I wasn't allowed to write anything down. “That is how it stay a secret. It is here.” She pointed to her head.

“How do you know you're getting it right if you don't measure?”

“You taste every time. Your taste know if it is right.” She took a plastic spoon and touched the garlic and oil with it. She let it cool for a sec, then let me lick it. “Close your eyes. This is how it should taste right now.” She paused. “Remember it.”

I wasn't confident I was going to remember, so I concentrated.

Aunt Maria threw the spoon away and continued her sauce routine.

“You have a lot to tell me,” I said. “What's with this family ‘gift' that I seem to have inherited from you? You know, I always thought there was something special connecting us.”

“I did too.” She pinched my cheek.

“How did it start?” I asked her.

“I was making the pizza.” She pointed into the dining room to the picture on the wall. “Right there.”

I nodded and continued to slowly stir with the silver spoon and commit the details of the recipe to memory while listening.

“I was young and married to Ferdinando. My lady friends were not married. They would come over for the pizza. Ferdinando's friends would come over for the pizza too. I started getting ideas in my head about the pizzas they liked and a feeling in my heart about which lady would match well with which man.”

“That's exactly what happens to me.”

“The matches, they worked.” She used the tips of her fingers to sprinkle sugar in the bubbling red liquid, stirred, and dabbed a bit on the end of a plastic spoon for me to taste. “Remember that,” she said about the taste. “Sometimes you need a little more sugar, sometimes less.”

I tried to memorize the taste—not as easy as it sounds.

“The matches is how we got the name Amore Pizzeria.
Amore
is love in Italian,” she said. “Everyone loved the matches.”

“Then what happened? How come you ‘no mess with love' anymore?”

“Because of a bad match I made. I paired a woman with a man, and they go off to America. Then I met another man who I just know is the perfect match for her, but she is gone.” A sad look came over her face. “He never marry. I always see him and he so sad. I think this is my fault. I feel so guilty, I stop the matching.”

Everything had been added to the pot. Aunt Maria turned the heat down and stirred the deep-red liquid with a long wooden spoon. “Now, we let it simmer.”