Page 16 of My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

He looked at me for a minute as it slowly sank in that I was onto him. That I had been since we first met. He wasn’t fooling anyone with his standoffish stance.

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘This time it’s different. He is gay. I’ve heard rumors.’

‘OK, it’s your life at the end of the day.’

I backed off with a shrug as we pulled up by an old stone building with a colonnade covered in bright red bougainvillea planted in terracotta pots as tall as Julian and as round as me. There were many cars parked outside what I realized was a quaint little restaurant called De gustibus.

‘Oh my God, my heart’s pounding! Do you realize that if I can get him to cook at my weddings, I’ll have made it big time,’ Paul hissed as he took my arm and hustled me inside.

At the bar, he stopped and spoke to a woman in a black apron, who nodded and led us down a dark cavern-like corridor to a larger cave, where someone had his head stuck inside a wood-burning oven.

‘Chef Veronesi… what an… anhonor,’ Paul babbled to the (rather nice) butt, being much too enthralled even to appraise it as he normally would have.

A grunt and then the man pulled out and grinned at us. ‘You’re late.’

‘I’m sorry. That’s my fault,’ I apologized.

‘Chef Veronesi, I’m Paul Belhomme and this is my friend, Erica Cantelli,’ Paul managed, already lost in the guy’s gaze.

A shock of red curly hair cut short and keen golden eyes met mine.

‘La sposa– the bride.’

He seemed to sneer, the wide, sardonic mouth curled, and I didn’t know if he was making fun of me or pitying me. Just by glancing at him, I could tell this guy was arrogance personified, with servants scurrying at his every gesture or grunt as if he were a god. Here, in his world, he meant power. To me, he simply meant food. Food I wouldn’t be able to eat until my wedding day, if I wanted to fit into any dress, let alone a nice one. The beautiful ones don’t come in big sizes, experience had taught me. And if they do, they don’t fit as nicely.

‘Piacere, my pleasure,’ Alberto Veronesi murmured as he directed us to a trestle table laden with so many kinds of food that my aunts’ Italian restaurant in Boston looked like a kiosk in comparison.

De gustibus? With all the fare available, it was more like Bust-de-guts.

‘Signora,’ the chef murmured as a waiter presented us with something that smelled more than heavenly.

Oh God, oh God. I could already feel said gut busting and my dress bursting at its lacy seams. And if I broke my diet and ate now, the sluice gates would open again and I’d never be able to gain control of my calorific intake, like surrendering once and for all to a long-lost lover.

I turned to Paul in desperation. ‘You try it. I trust you completely.’

The chef’s face fell and I instantly knew I’d offended him.

‘What?’ Paul cried. ‘You’re not even going totryyour own wedding menu?’

‘No. No fattening foods until my wedding day.’

‘No one refuses Chef Veronesi’s food,’ Paul whispered, but Alberto raised his hand.

‘Please, please. Perhaps I should assure thesignorathat none of my food is fattening in the least.’

Not fattening in the least? I looked up, suddenly hopeful and intrigued. In my mind, low-calorie food meant tasteless roughage and that was about it. This man was offering me real, gorgeous food without a lot of calories? Absolutely unheard of.

‘I beg your pardon, Chef?’ I ventured.

He smiled. ‘Steamed, boiled, grilled, baked – nothing fried and absolutely no fat. It’s all part of my lean movement.’ And then he grinned. ‘Cakes excluded, of course.’

‘Unbelievable, Chef…’

‘Believe it!’ he commanded, then grinned. ‘And please, call me Alberto.’

Absolutely no fat was fantastic news for me, but for my guests? An absolute disaster. I couldn’t feed them what sounded like baby food!

The doubt – and panic – must have shown on my face, because he chuckled and turned to a plate behind him to pass me what looked like a dumpling.

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