Page 37 of The Start of Something Wonderful

CHAPTER FIVE

The Italian Effect

May

TODAY IS THE DAYI will find a job. Any job.

I scan the parade of shops as I pedal by – heaps of possibilities: there’s the bakery, off-licence, newsagent’s, cut-price bargain store, chemist, the kebab shop – then a hazy memory of Wendy’s birthday, and being served a dodgy doner on the way home by someone resembling Hannibal Lecter’s brotherseeps through my brain. Maybe not.

Panting like a bloodhound, I arrive at the top of Richmond Hill and notice the dry cleaners, which has been closed for months, now boasts a green, white, and red awning withIl Mulinoand a windmill emblazoned across it.

I peer through the window, and spying someone inside, tap on the door. It is opened by a small man with a weatherworn face and crinkly-kindeyes, a stripey apron accentuating his barrel-like girth.

‘Sì?’

‘Buongiorno! Do you have any vacancies for waiting staff?’

‘Do you have experience?’ he asks in his thick accent. I nod.

‘Prego,’ he smiles, raising his heavy eyebrows and beckoning me inside.

I am immediately transported to some little corner of Italy. The spine-tingling tones of Pavarotti percolate through thecoffee-filled air. The rustic furniture is covered with red and white gingham tablecloths, and behind the bar sits one of those old, 1950s’ Gaggia espresso machines.

‘Coffee?’ Luigi asks, tipping beans into the grinder.

‘Mmm, please.’ I smile, squinting at a sepia photograph of a little urchin boy standing next to an old windmill.

‘Do they have windmills in Italy?’ I ask.

‘Sì,’he replies. ‘No many. This windmill, it is in Sicily.Allora, you want to work in my restaurant …’

One cappuccino later, I’ve got a job starting tomorrow. Luigi prefers to employ native Italians, but I manage to persuade him by promising to learn a little of the language (at least enough to enable me to pronounce the names of the dishes correctly, liketalliatelliand nottagliatelli, whichcaused Luigi to crack up when he asked me to read the menu aloud).

I believed my waitressing days were well behind me, but needs must; it’s either this or the dole queue, and the hours will fit in with my busy audition schedule. Now, there’s positive thinking for you.

* * *

Tonight is my debut at Il Mulino, and the restaurant’s first preview night, ahead of the official opening nextmonth. Luigi introduces me to Rosalba, his daughter, a soprano singer, who’s helping out her father in between classes and auditions. With her jet-black hair, flashing eyes, and hourglass figure, she was born to play Carmen.

(Sound like I’m some opera buff, don’t I? But I’m only familiar withCarmenandMadame Butterfly: the former, because in 1982, I was dragged along to see my Aunty Ailsaperform the title role in Glenderran Amateur Operatic Society’s production – that’s how she met my Uncle Jim – and the latter, becauseMiss Saigon, which is based on the Puccini opera, used to be my favourite musical; I saw the original touring production twelve times, because back then I worked as a Saturday usherette at our local theatre. The story left a huge impression on me, not least becauseI had a major crush on the guy playing Chris, the American GI.)

‘Come with me,cara, I show you the kitchen,’ says Rosalba, sweeping through the double doors, hips swaying like a pendulum.

She and the chef exchange some words in Italian, then with sleight of hand, he tosses fresh herbs and brightly coloured peppers from a giant, sizzling pan, high into the air, like a conjurer, performinghis very own brand of magic.

‘Bravo!’ I cry, and immediately wish I hadn’t. He grunts something tetchy under his breath and angrily sloshes more red wine into the sauce. Not a good start.

‘Don’t mind Sergio,’ says Rosalba over the hiss. ‘He just likes everyone to know he’s thecapo –the boss. And this … is Nonna Maria,’ she says fondly. A bird-like lady all in black sits on a stool inthe corner, long ribbons of potato peel falling from her knife into a huge, dented, aluminium pot on the floor. Her face creases into a wrinkle-etched smile. ‘Ciao.’

Luigi enters, and they all start babbling at once, their voices becoming louder and higher, their gestures more vehement. There’s soon enough passion and melodrama unfolding to rival any opera, and I half expect a brawl to breakout amongst the colanders and carving knives. Every word is fuelled with passion and sounds to me like the Italian equivalent ofEh, whaddayamean, you sonofabitch? Showa soma respect. Youworka for this family now – forget Don Cannelloni.

‘What was all that about?’ I ask Rosalba as we head back to the dining room.

‘Allora, my father,’ she says with a careless shrug of her shoulders, ‘hejust wanna know why Sergio put cannelloni on the specials menu again.Benvenuti!’ she calls, breaking away as six more customers materialise through the door.

The bell rings furiously. ‘Via la quattro!Adesso!’

I spin around full circle and then back again. Rosalba’s busy taking coats and Luigi is deep in conversation with a customer. Oh, well, I can’t hang around looking like a nun atan Ann Summers party, so taking a deep breath, I head towards the kitchen. Sergio darts me a surly glare and nods towards the counter. I scoop up the two plates of steaming minestrone soup, then pirouette back out through the swing doors.

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