Lost in Rome (5 page)

I wrote down one ricotta cheese and one salami. Those might be unusual in America but were pretty standard here in Rome. I gave the order slip to AJ, because I wasn't sure where it was supposed to go next.

Then I watched the customers and started making couples in my head. Since the pizza toppings here were so different from the ones at home, I sort of had to start from scratch. I had pepperoni, mushrooms, and meatball all worked out, but ricotta cheese and salami were new territory for me. This required serious concentration.

A pretty woman with a cute pink purse was speaking French with her female companion while savoring
bianca
(that's white pizza) with asparagus and burrata mozzarella—a cheese with a smooth, creamy center that's spreadable. It is majorly
delizioso
.

A table of four men nearby had ordered a table-size margarita pizza. (Margarita is topped with olive oil, garlic, fresh basil, tomatoes, and mozzarella and Parmesan cheeses.)

When I passed them, my stomach fluttered like a butterfly had just burst out of a cocoon. And an idea hit me.

AJ had added up checks for the tables. “I'll deliver those,” I offered.

First I gave Eduardo Macelli his pizza. Then I placed a leather folio containing a check on the table with the French ladies and gave another to the men eating margarita.

Then I watched and waited.

When the ladies realized I'd given them the wrong bill, they scanned the tables for the order matching the food on the check.

Mademoiselle bianca with asparagus and burrata mozzarella approached one of the margarita men. “
Pardonnez-moi
,” she said in French. Then in English she said, “I think this is your check.”

Mr. Margarita opened the folio. “And this is the one for you,” he said with an Italian accent.

They traded, pausing for only a second when they each had a hand on the same folio.

The butterflies in my stomach flapped their wings.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Murielle.”

He said, “Would you and your friend join us for coffee, Murielle?”

“
Bien sûr
. Of course.”

The ladies fitted chairs around the men's table, and AJ brought them espresso and cappuccino.

My first match!

I found a pad used for taking orders and jotted notes about matching margarita and bianca pizzas.

AJ leaned on the counter. “What happened there?”

“Remember I told you that I had two ideas? The samples were just to get people here. That”—I pointed to the table—“is my second idea. You see, I'm kind of a . . . a bit of a . . . I guess you'd call it a . . . romance coordinator. I—”

“Lucy.” Aunt Maria waved for me to come into the kitchen.

“I'll tell you later,” I said to AJ, and headed to Aunt Maria.

AJ called after me, “Uh, yeah. You will. You can't just tell someone that and walk away.”

I turned. “Sorry.” Once in the kitchen, I asked Aunt Maria, “What's up?”

“What was that with the check?”

“I thought I would introduce
them
”—I indicated the women—“to
them
.” I indicated the men.

“Why?”

“Well, because of the pizza they ordered,” I confessed. “You see, I kind of guess things about people based on how they like their pizza. Something told me that the margarita and bianca people would make a good romantic match.”

“
Mamma mia!
” Aunt Maria exclaimed. “Who taught you to do that?”

“No one. It was just like a feeling I had in my gut one day at home at a pizza shop. And I went with it. First it was just in my head. Then I tried it for real. And it worked!”

“It is the
matchmaking.
It is not good. Do not mess with the love.”

“But it could be good for business,” I said. “Look around. They'll totally Instagram and tweet this stuff.”

“What is this ‘tweet'? Like a bird?” She shook her head, not really wanting an explanation. “No. No more, Lucy. Understand?
Capisce
?”

I sighed. “All right. But it seems a shame to let this skill go to waste.”

“No more! Don't mess with the love.”

“Okay,” I said. I walked back out to the dining room, angry and confused. Why did it bother her so much?

I walked right past AJ without explaining anything and approached Mr. Macelli. “Did you like the pizza?” I asked him.

“Yes.
Buono
. Now I'll try”—he pointed to two items on the menu—“this and this.”

“You're still hungry? Super!” I said. “I'll get that for you.” I took his glass. “And I'll refill this.”

I put the order in, brought the drink, and waited on other tables. As the lunch crowd faded, I wiped down tables and reset them for dinner.

Eduardo Macelli sat for another hour, determined to try as many menu items as he could before exploding. He had taken a pen and paper out of his briefcase and wrote things down.

“Can I get you anything else?” I finally asked him.

“
Sì
. Your
zia
Maria.”

“Okay.” I thought he was going to file a complaint about my waitressing or the food. “Is everything okay? This is my first day.”

“Everything is
buono
. I want to talk.”

I pulled Aunt Maria away from the food prep area, where she was peeling garlic, and sent her to Eduardo's table. She wrung her hands nervously as she approached him.

I walked past the table several times, lingering to catch what they were saying, but I couldn't translate their hushed Italian tones.

What was going on with those two?

After all the customers had left, I was so tired that I would've been happy with a cereal bar and a bed. But then I saw the spread of Italian food that Aunt Maria had set on a table in the dining room, and I forgot all about a cereal bar.

A mountain of homemade pasta with an Aunt Maria–invented sauce that had a pinkish tint to it, a chopped salad with vegetables of every color, and crusty bread wooed me to sit at the table set for seven.

“What's all this?” I asked.

“We will eat together,” Aunt Maria said. She poured olive oil on little plates and sprinkled it with seasoning. “Sit.” She broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the oil. No one butters bread in Italy.

As if on cue, Gianna, Jane, and a young guy my age, looking absurd in a mid-length black skirt with many layers of pink tulle underneath, entered Amore Pizzeria through the back door.

“Ah, Rico. Here is Lucy. You remember her,
sì
?” She dashed into the kitchen, calling for AJ and Vito.

“Remember what?” I asked him, confused.

He shrugged. “I guess she meant that she told me you were coming. It's all she's talked about for days,” he said. He popped a chunk of bread in his mouth.

“You don't have an Italian accent either,” I said to Rico.

“Nope. I was born in the US. But my parents are Italian. We moved back when I was, like, six,” he explained. “A lot of tourists come into Amore Pizzeria. It helps Maria to have fluent English speakers around.”

That all made sense to me.

AJ sat down and asked Rico, “You the model again?”

Rico said, “Seems that I have the best legs.” He jutted his bruised and battered typical boy leg out for everyone to see.

As far as banged-up boy legs go, I guessed his were pretty good. But it wasn't his legs that struck me; it was something about his eyes—dark, dark brown—that was strangely familiar. He reminded me of a boy I sometimes put in my stories.

Did I know him from somewhere? Were we online friends?

I didn't think so. A cute Italian boy who didn't mind wearing a skirt seemed like something I would remember. I got a weird feeling in my gut. Was it telling me to match him with someone? I didn't even know what kind of pizza he liked.

Rico said to me, “I know this might look weird to you, but I'm an unusual guy. I like football, snakes, loud music, horror movies, and”—he indicated the skirt—“I happen to have a knack for fashion. And, FYI, I don't usually wear skirts.”

“You're right. That
is
unusual. But I like that.” I whispered, “I'm a little different myself.”

“Yeah? How?” he asked.

“Maybe I'll tell you one of these days.”

“I can't wait.”

Gianna looked at me talking to Rico and raised an eyebrow. Recently she'd been asking me if I thought there were any cute boys at school, if I liked anyone, etc. Maybe she thought it was somehow her responsibility as my older sister to show me how to meet boys. She dropped her brow and said, “Dinner looks great. I'm so hungry.”

Rico said, “Those are Maria's favorite three words to hear.” His name and appearance were blatantly Italian—dark hair, skin, and eyes—but he had no accent. It seemed that Aunt Maria had somehow attracted Americans.

Aunt Maria said to everyone, “
Mangia
.” Then she called, “Meataball! Psst! Psst!”

The cat ran in and sat on his haunches next to a plate of fettuccini that Aunt Maria had cut up and put on the floor for him.

“It's his favorite,” AJ said to me.

Then she dished out a generous bowl of pasta for each of us. My stomach growled at the squishy sound of the white cream sauce hitting the plate. I hadn't realized how hungry I was.

“Did you work hard today?” Aunt Maria asked Gianna.

Gianna said, “Jane and Rico don't stop. Not even for lunch.”

Aunt Maria said, “Then you eat a big dinner, like AJ.”

AJ twirled pasta around his fork, making sure no noodle went astray. Then he crammed the forkful into his mouth. “You can always count on me to be hungry,” he said through the mouthful of pasta.

We didn't talk for a few minutes while we all took the edge off our hunger. Then I asked, “What happened with Eduardo Macelli today?”

Gianna asked, “Who's that?”

Aunt Maria said, “He is a man from the bank.”

“Did he agree to give you an extension?” Jane asked.

“We are a . . . a bit behind in some of our payments since Pizzeria de Roma reopened,” Aunt Maria explained. “But Eduardo Macelli is going to give me an extra month. This is good.”

“That's great news,” Jane said. She held up her Coke. “
Salute!
” she said.

We all repeated, “
Salute!
”

“What changed his mind?” Jane asked.

“He loved the food and thought there was a lot of customers,” Aunt Maria said. Then she asked, “What happened? Why so many customers today?”

I explained about the samples and the stories on the square. “It seems they like good food, a good story, and a traditional Italian experience. You can give them that,” I said.

You can give them more, but you put the kibosh on matchmaking.

“You know,” I said, looking around the restaurant. “The place could use a little refresh.”

“Refresh?” Aunt Maria asked.

Gianna clapped her hands. “Oh, I'm so good at refreshing. We can go with colors like red wine and espresso brown. And we can get fresh plants and cut flowers and pretty little candles on the tables. Plus, it will give me something to do while I'm here, since I'm not working in the shop.”

Aunt Maria looked around. “Maybe the place does need a—what you call it?—refresh.”

Gianna said, “It's kind of a big job. We're gonna need some help.”

“No worries.” Rico leaned back in his chair. “I know a few guys who can come over.” He crossed his bruised legs under the pink pouffy skirt.

“I'll help too,” I volunteered.

AJ's mouth was full again, so he raised his hand, indicating he would help too.

Gianna walked around, explaining her vision for Amore Pizzeria's face-lift. “A mirror could go here, and I can dress up all these frames and rehang them.”

“I have any dress-up supply you could ever need,” Jane offered.

“And I never travel without my bling kit,” Gianna said. “Then we can get a few trees, maybe a ficus, and wrap them in little white lights—a very classy and romantic feel.”

Romance. That was exactly the direction I wanted to go. But
noooooooo
.

“I'll make a new curtain,” Jane added.

“Oh, and get this: when it gets dark, we can line both sides of the street with LUMINARIES!” Gianna squealed. “Oh, I love, love,
love
luminaries.”

Aunt Maria said, “This sounds all very good, but like a lot of money.”

Rico said, “I know a guy who owns a florist shop. He owes me a favor. He can bring the stuff you need.”

“Okay. Is a good idea. A little refresh,” Aunt Maria relented. “Tomorrow is Wednesday and we no open. This is the day I go around Rome for my ingredients and make sauce. Can you do it in one day?”