Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 59647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“Good,” I said. “Who’s first?”
7
SOFIA
I tended to enjoy Tuesday mornings.
I opened, and as the first person in the restaurant, it was up to me to get things going for the day. Often, I found myself getting up early and getting into the kitchen before I even needed to, just because I enjoyed the peace and solace of the empty restaurant. The relaxing monotony of chopping vegetables and starting the soup and sauces that we would build on throughout the day. That was the secret that only a few knew—the sauce was always better near closing time. It had cooked all day and had been spiced to perfection.
Tuesdays were also slow lunches, meaning I never got in the weeds, and I never had to worry about frantic service. Unless a business meeting was happening in the private dining room or some birthday party was coming in, for the most part, I could daydream the entire time I was there and just let my hands do the cooking while my mind went elsewhere.
Tuesday was my favorite day at Sergio’s, for all those reasons, which was why it was a surprise and a disappointment to see the door already open when I got there. Propped wide with the ancient wooden milk carton that held it open during the warm days, the darkness beyond the door was ominous. It meant Papa had to be in there. Waiting.
There was no reason for him to be there on Tuesday morning. Tuesday mornings used to be time off for him; he would even close the restaurant until dinner service, just so he could spend the day with the family.
So, why was he here?
I walked into the gloom of the dark kitchen, the only lights on were the ones above the cutting board island and the one in the office. Since Papa wasn’t in the kitchen, that only left the office, and it gave me a minor bit of hope. Maybe he forgot something last night or wanted to check over an order or sales? Maybe it was something other than waiting to talk to me.
My hopes were dashed almost as soon as they had sprung up when the door opened to his little office and his face appeared inside it.
“Sofia, will you come here, please.”
“I have to get started, Papa. Lots to do to prep, since I’m alone.”
“Just for a minute, figlia piccola,” he said.
“Shit,” I muttered. I hated when he called me that. It meant I was about to get scolded. It was like calling me by using my entire name, including both middle ones. Anytime I heard “Sofia Maria Giovanna Falco, come here,” I knew I was in deep shit.
I crossed the kitchen, looking longingly at my knife bag as I sat it down on the counter, and went to the office door. Papa’s office was cramped and small, but clean and neat. Much like everything else in Papa’s life, things seemed to organize themselves around him, like the papers put themselves away perfectly. In reality, it was mostly Luna, who was great with organization, going in and cleaning up after him.
He was sitting in his chair, a pen pressed against his bottom lip and a piece of paper on the otherwise bare desk. Considering he didn’t have his laptop with him, it cut down on the possibilities of what he would be there for. Mostly it left things he wanted to fuss at me about.
“Yes, Papa?” I asked as sweetly as I could muster.
“This cook-off,” he said. “It’s foolish.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Sofia. The cook-off. It’s foolish for you to enter. A waste of your time and effort.”
“Why would you say that?” I asked, getting hot already.
“Calm down,” he said. “You are just like your mother. I mean it is silly for you to waste your time with it, child. You are not a chili maker. You are Italian. You make breads and pasta and fish and sauce. It is insulting for a daughter of mine to be doing it. I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it?” I asked, gritting my teeth. I could feel the explosion coming on and out of respect for my father was tempering it.
Barely.
“Besides,” he said, “this Kieran fellow has a bunch of awards for his chili. He is entered as well. You should not get your hopes up, competing against someone who has done this before. If this were a pasta-making competition, I would say, please, my beautiful, go win it. Destroy them and bring your papa home the award. But this man, he knows what he is doing. It is not your forte.”
“How would you know?” I thundered. “You never let me do anything to show my forte! Every time I try to do something other than lasagna, you tell me it’s too spicy!”
“Because it’s too damn spicy!” he thundered back. “You have the tongue of a dragon, Sofia.”