What Love Tastes Like. Zuri Day
“Why Rome?” he asked.
Tiffany smiled, thankful for the familiar territory they were entering. “I’m studying to be a chef.”
Nick’s brows rose. “Really?”
“Yes. I just graduated from culinary school and am here to train under a master of Italian cuisine.”
Nick’s interest piqued, and he turned to face Tiffany. “Who?”
“You probably don’t know him; he’s famous in cooking circles, but not a name often heard in the outside world.”
“It wouldn’t happen to be Emilio Riatoli, would it?”
Tiffany’s mouth opened in shock. “You’ve heard of him?”
Again, Nick blessed Tiffany with the deep, throaty laugh that made her love lair tingle. His eyes sparkled as he answered. “I’ve heard of him, yes.”
Tiffany looked at Nick with new appreciation. Anyone who was enthusiastic for, let alone knowledgeable about anything or anyone in the culinary world gained credence in her eyes. “How do you know of Chef Riatoli?”
“This is one of my favorite cities, remember?” His smile deepened, but he said nothing further.
“He was on tour in the States and conducted a class at our school,” Tiffany continued. “It was mainly on sauces, but he also demonstrated a couple dishes from another of his areas of expertise…seafood. He’s a genius at what he does,” she added, with more than a little admiration in her voice. “My dream is to open a restaurant in LA, one with cuisine similar to Chef Riatoli’s specialties—but with my own interpretation, of course.”
Nick’s interest in and appreciation for Tiffany grew. Here was a woman after his own heart, with dreams that complemented the future he visualized.
“What types of specialties would your restaurant serve?”
Tiffany sighed and sat back, at ease when talking about her ultimate life goal. It was the first time she’d felt totally comfortable with Nick since they met.
“I’d have several scallop-based appetizers,” she began. “Served in various sauces, richly embodied yet never overpowering the fish’s delicate taste. I love working with asparagus, especially white asparagus, and it’s a perfect complement to this seafood. Chef Riatoli makes a dish that is amazing.” Tiffany’s mouth watered of its own accord as she remembered the dish Chef had prepared in their classroom kitchen.
I pettini al pomodoro e l’asparago, Nick thought. Emilio’s simple yet succulent pairing of scallops with asparagus was his singularly favorite appetizer in all of Italy.
“What about salads,” he prompted after Tiffany had reeled off several more variations on her scallop ideas.
“Simple, clean,” she answered easily. “Too often, cooks make the mistake of putting too many ingredients into their salad creations. Chef Riatoli teaches that less is often more when it comes to marrying flavors. I’ve been playing around with an arugula salad that is nothing but greens, thin slices of fennel and tomato, with a basic vinaigrette that contains—” Tiffany stopped, realizing she was about to divulge a secret ingredient. “That contains a little something extra,” she finished, her mouth pursing with the effort of not blurting out the very essences this man reminded her so much of—maple syrup with a hint of wasabi—sweet and hot.
The car turned the corner and entered a narrow street, typical of what one would imagine when thinking of Europe. The brick buildings on the left side of the street were adorned with flower-filled balconies and wooden shutters. The right side of the street was lined with cafés, all boasting outside seating enhanced with subdued lighting, candles, stark white linen, and canopies that bathed the setting in splashes of color. Belatedly, Tiffany realized she’d hardly noticed the city, so caught up had she been in sharing her dream menu. But now, as they approached the end of the block, she looked around and began reading the names of the restaurants and designer clothing and shoe shops on the other side of the street. Her heart beat faster as she read one sign that stated simply, Fia’s.
“You’ll love the area,” Chef Riatoli’s assistant had told her when he’d provided information to help Tiffany’s transition. “And whatever you do, don’t spend all your money at Fia’s.”
“Who’s that?” Tiffany had asked.
“Only the newest and most sought-after designer in Rome,” the assistant had explained. “Her shop is largely by appointment only, and her dresses are on probably half the actresses you see on the red carpet.”
Tiffany had assured him that when it came to designer fashions, her money was safe in her purse. Now, had it been a culinary shop, with various pots, pans, and kitchen utensils? Tiffany would have been in trouble. It was designer knife sets, not designer knits, that warmed her blood. But Fia’s is right across the street from where I’ll be working, he said. It’s right across the street from—
“Here we are, sir.” The driver interrupted Tiffany’s thoughts. “Safely delivered to your favorite place in Rome…”
“AnticaPesa,” both he and Tiffany finished together. “You know him!” she gushed to Nick. “You know Chef Riatoli!”
“Guilty as charged,” Nick said, his grin now full and unabashed.
The door on her side opened and the chauffeur waited to help her out of the car. Tiffany, however, remained glued to her seat.
“His delicacies await us, mia bellezza,” Nick prodded. “Shall we?”
“I can’t,” Tiffany answered, feeling inadequate one minute, overwhelmed the next. “I’m here as Chef’s cook, not his customer! I can’t afford this place. I’m a student. I’m…What will he think of me walking into his establishment to eat?”
Nick stepped out of the car, walked around to Tiffany’s side, and extended his hand. “Sweetheart, he’ll think you’re hungry. Come.”
5
The maitre d’ smiled broadly as Nick entered the warm and cozy foyer. “Dominico, mio amico! Benvenuto di nuovo a AnticaPesa. Come lei è sono?”
“Buono, grazie,” Nick answered, before switching to English for Tiffany’s benefit. “Very good, in fact. It’s been far too long since I’ve been here, but I see you are managing well without me. The place is full, as usual.”
“Too many customers,” the maitre d’ admitted, his English punctuated with a lyrical accent. “But that is a good problem to have, no?”
Nick placed a hand at the small of Tiffany’s back and guided her forward. “My friend, Ms. Matthews,” he said, his voice smoky and possessive. “Tiffany, this is Rolando.”
The maitre d’s eyes widened in appreciation. “Bella donna,” he gushed, bringing Tiffany’s hand to his lips and kissing it gently. “It is my pleasure to feast upon such exquisite beauty.”
Tiffany released a self-conscious giggle as Joy’s voice swam into her consciousness. “Italian men love Black women,” she’d said as Tiffany modeled the dress. “You might get ravished by a ravioli-eating—”
“Grazie,” Tiffany answered softly, speaking the word she’d heard Nick say earlier, that obviously meant thank you. It was her first foray into Italian, and a blatant attempt to turn her thoughts away from the sexually oriented conversation that had preceded Joy’s comment.
“Prego,” the maitre d’ responded as they reached Nick’s reserved table. “Should we start with your usual wine, sir?”
“No, I think we’ll go for something a bit more celebratory. It’s Tiffany’s first visit to Rome.”
“Ah, then let me send the sommelier to discuss an appropriate choice for you and the giovane donna.” The maitre d’ smiled at Tiffany,