Page 28 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
I was used to dealing with stubbornness—especially from my father.
To his credit, he leaned back in his chair and allowed me to continue. I laid it all out—hiring a social media manager, hosting a night for influencers to come in for a meal on the restaurant in exchange for a review, using social media to stay on trends and reach more customers, hiring a food photographer to create a curated page that would have thousands of followers tuning in to the colorful feed. I even laid out the numbers it would take to franchise the restaurant or work with major manufacturers to create a frozen pizza option that could be in grocery stores. Every suggestion I made was supported by data and actionable steps.
But when I finished and was met with silence, I knew they would ignore my suggestions.
“This is great, son. But we don’t have it in our budget to hire a social media manager or pay a photographer.” It took everything in me to keep my face neutral and not show my disappointment. I’d taken the time to show my father and uncle how they could rearrange their expenses to fit this into their current budget.
My father’s excuse wasn’t a reasonable one. He leaned forward and pressed his forefinger into my chest. “Have faith,figlio. We are in the business of making food with love. People will recognize that.”
“But Dad—” My retort died on my tongue when I saw the look in my father’s eyes. He had made up his mind; his decision was final.
Uncle Antonio, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. “James, the business you’re in is very different from ours. We don’t run numbers, we run ovens. Food is about bringing people together, not spreadsheets. You’re good with those numbers, but here, it’s about the heart. Focus on your work, leave this to us, and we’ll fix it the way we always have—by making the best damn food in Brooklyn.”
“I’ll just leave this here.” My fingers fumbled for the printout amidst the towering avalanche of papers on my father’s desk, each rustle a potential threat to its survival. “In case you change your minds.”
“I’ll see you for dinner tonight?” My father asked as I stood to leave. Hoisting my satchel back on my shoulder, I gave him a terse nod before exiting the room.
As I re-entered the dining room, Brandon placed a pizza, freshly removed from the brick oven, upon one of the many unoccupied tables. Emilia was clearing a nearby table.
Brandon studied my face, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Didn’t go well?”
I shook my head in defeat.
Emilia gave me a quick nod, her ponytail swishing as she walked past me. “The food’s still the best part of the place, right?”
My cousin pulled out a chair for me, then sat next to me. Not a soul remained in the restaurant. If what Brandon had shared at the club in Brooklyn a week ago was true, this place couldn’t afford too many more empty days.
“I tried to give them some numbers on the benefits of hiring a social media manager.”
Brandon snorted as he bit into a slice of pizza. “Now I understand why it didn’t go well. I’m sure you droned on about facts and figures. By the time you were done, Uncle G gave you some sad excuse that you’d already disproven in your presentation because he’d zoned out as soon as you started talking about ROI.”
“Were you listening through the door?” I joked, taking my first bite. An explosion of flavors burst across my taste buds. I wasn’t being biased when I said Rossi Pizzeria was one of the best pizza places in all five boroughs. The food spoke for itself.
“Did they give you some speech about how the right people will find this place?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Yep. Same old story.”
I used to think Brandon was irresponsible, his constant partying and inability to find a job outside the family restaurant a testament to his immaturity. I believed a portion of his past hostility toward me resulted from his misunderstanding of my non-participation in the family restaurant. But when it came down to it, the two of us weren’t all that different. We both cared enough to see this place last—whether that was against our parents’ better judgment or not.
Emilia came over to join us, a tray in hand with a fresh batch of drinks. “Don’t worry, James. We’ll figure it out.Maybe we can start by getting some influencers in here—get people talking.”
My phone dinged in my pocket. Two notifications—one forSophisticateand one for Hallie’s food blog. I’d set up web alerts earlier this week, as I told myself it was only to keep tabs on the articles that she put out. But as I read her latest piece, a chuckle escaped me. Her wit was as sharp as ever, and the playful jabs she threw in were a testament to the humor I’d come to expect from her. Each article highlighted the latest guy she was trying to get a date from, using witty nicknames, and ending with some sort of interruption. Only she and I knew the source of that disruption.
Her blog post featured a list of the best ramen places in Manhattan. It was full of clever quips, intelligent remarks, and clear expertise on what made good food. But what I found the most compelling about her writing was her ability to highlight the storybehindthe food—whether that be the chef, the cultural impact of the restaurant, or how a family-owned chain became a giant. She didn’t just review food; she told its story.
Wait.
Why hadn’t I thought of this before now?
“Emilia,” I exclaimed, leaning over to drop a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re a genius.”
“I already knew that,” she said.
Maybe my father was right, and the right people would love this place if they just knew it existed. Luckily, I knew an infuriating, annoyingly beautiful aspiring food critic who could help make that happen.
10
Hallie
