Page 16 of Bella Rosa
He sits forward in his seat and reaches out to push my hands off my face. "You don't have anything on your face. You're just very interesting to watch." I can feel the blush creeping up my chest and neck. Matteo notices too. He follows its path until he reaches my eyes once again. "Explain to me what you're doing, Rosa."
"Why do you call me Rosa instead of Rosalie?" I've wondered for a while. I just couldn't bring myself to ask, because I kind of like it.
He reaches forward to run two fingers gently across my cheek. I shiver when he makes contact. "When we first met your cheeks turned the color of a rose when you almost fell." My face must be the color of a tomato now. I don't get a chance to think about what he said too much, because the waiter arrives with our salads.
I catch the waiter before he leaves. "Could I get some extra dressing please?" He gives me a nod before walking away. We both unroll our napkins and place them in our laps. I take a few photos of my salad while I wait for the waiter to return.
My father used to say I like a little lettuce with my dressing. I can't help it. The dressing is the best part. The waiter brings my extra dressing and I dump it all on my salad only to realize it’s still not enough. I half-raise my hand to motion for the waiter again, but decide to stick with the dressing I have at the last minute. I don't want to be a nuisance.
Matteo pushes his half empty dressing bowl over to me. I look up at him to try and figure out what he wants me to do with it. You can’t possibly enjoy a salad with that little dressing.
"Take it." A little jerk of the head toward the dressing bowl is my only answer. Fine. I won't let good dressing go to waste. I pick up my fork to take my first bite, but I notice Matteo still hasn't eaten any of his. "Is there something wrong?"
He pushes his salad toward me. "Do you want to take a photo of mine as well?"
I set my fork down and pick up my camera. I can't believe he thought of that. "Thank you. Most people I eat with get upset when I ask to take photos of their food."
I quickly take the photo so he can begin eating. I slide the bowl back over to him. He surprises me again by taking a few scoops of his salad and placing it on a small plate that's supposed to be for the bread.
He slides that over to me as well. "You can't write about something you haven't tried." Now I'm really amazed. I shouldn't be, though. He is a chef after all. He must be used to trying new food with other chefs like this.
I try both of our salads and continue making notes. He startles me when he says, "Explain what you're doing, Rosa."
I put my favorite red pen down to replace it with my fork so I can fix the dressing throughout my salad. "I like to take notes about what I'm eating so I don't forget certain details. I also like to take photos of the dish to add to my article later. Most people like looking at photos of dishes rather than just reading a description." I take a bite of his salad next, then scribble down some notes.
Matteo doesn't say anything for a few moments. He seems deep in thought until he asks, "Would you like to see the kitchen before we leave?"
Would I ever! I could ask so many questions, and take some really cool photos for the article. "That would be great! Thank you. How do you know Mario anyway?" I take another sip of my wine.
"He used to work at Moretti's. He left to open his own restaurant a few years back." I give him a small nod as we finish off our salads.
The waiter shows up to replace our empty salad plates with our main course. Again, Matteo allows me to take a photo of his dish, and scoops out a few bites for me to try.
I take my first bite of the chicken tetrazzini casserole. I close my eyes and moan, enjoying the mixture of flavors. The mushroom, onion, and garlic are the stars of the show.
When I finally open my eyes I'm met with light in Matteo's eyes. "How did you become such a food connoisseur?"
I push my hair behind my shoulder, suddenly feeling warm. "It was just my dad and I when I was growing up. He tried so hard to cook for us at home, but he would always end up burning something and we would have to go out to eat instead. We became more and more adventurous as time went on, so I grew to like a variety of foods."
I smile to myself as I think back on those wonderful memories. "As you can imagine growing up in a small town, we didn't have much of a variety to choose from. We would always go on weekend trips together so we could try new places. We had a few favorites of course. This diner downtown was always a hit. We would always get them to make the strangest pancake toppings."
He lays his fork down. His food untouched. "What about your mom? Did she ever go with you?"
I shake my head. "No, but that was fine with me."
His laugh isn't one of humor. "I understand that all too well."
I tilt my head to the side, curious what caused his sudden shift. "You don't have a good relationship with your mom?"
He laughs again, still void of humor. "That's an understatement."
I nod my head, aware the topic has struck a nerve. "Tell me about how this casserole is made. I'd love to include that kind of stuff in my article."
I see the tension leave his shoulders almost immediately. He grabs my notebook and starts writing the ingredients. Talking me through them as he goes.
"I'll share my best kept secret. Most people only use butter when they first add the mushrooms, garlic and onions to the pan to cook. The trick is to season the butter while it's melting, then the dish is unforgettable."
Unforgettable. What a great word.
