Very Valentine by Trigiani Adriana

Author:Trigiani, Adriana [Trigiani, Adriana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2009-06-05T04:00:00+00:00

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.

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