Lost in Rome (4 page)

“Don't look!” AJ snapped.

I casually brushed my hair in front of my face and refocused my eyes to my fork. Aunt Maria was right, they were shiny.

We waited a minute.

I scanned the floor to see if Lorenzo's feet were still there. “He's gone.”

AJ lowered his menu. “That was close.”

Just then, a waitress appeared with our pizzas. I had to admit, they looked really good.

I hung my nose into the steam. “Smells good,” I said. I cut a piece of eggplant, closed my eyes, and slid it into my mouth. I let it sit on my tongue for a second. Then I opened my eyes.

“What?” AJ asked.

I didn't answer, just chewed and swallowed.

“Good?” he asked. “Do you like it?”

Again, I didn't answer. I cut a piece with sun-dried tomatoes. Again, I put it in my mouth, closed my eyes, and let my tongue roll around it.

When I opened my eyes this time, I saw that AJ had finished both of his anchovy pies. BOTH!

How do boys do that?

Through a full mouth, he asked, “Good?”

“No. The crust is doughy and undercooked. And Aunt Maria's sauce blows this away. This could be”—I lowered my voice—“from a jar.”

I looked at all the people in the crowded restaurant. “Look, there's no, ‘Ooh. Mmmm.' Or ‘This is so good.' They're only here because it's convenient. There's nothing special or memorable about this place except maybe the big dance floor, but they don't even use that. The food is like blah with a side of meh.” I smiled and pushed the food away. “This is great!” I said.

“You just said it was ‘meh.' ”

“That's what's great. Amore Pizzeria is way better. We just need something to attract customers. And the place could use a little sprucing up, if you know that I mean. Luckily, I know the Queen of Bling, who can help with a makeover.”

“I like your optimism.” AJ eyed my plate. “You going to eat that?” I slid the plate to him. “Do you have a good idea for how to attract customers?” he asked.

I grinned. “Actually, I have
two
good ideas.”

My ideas: samples and couples.

The next day I started with samples. I rolled the dough for a big pizza, very thin like my dad had taught me—of course he learned from Aunt Maria. I planned to top it with cheese, Aunt Maria's sauce, and an amazing classic Italian topping, sausage. Its deliciousness would lure people down the narrow cobblestone alley. Once they arrived, I'd match them. Then word would spread—maybe it would even trend on social media. All those coin throwers looking for love would come here. If my plan worked, I'd spend the rest of my visit teaching Aunt Maria how to match when I was gone.

Hmmm . . . I should probably start keeping good notes to share with her.

In the kitchen with me was Vito, the cook who didn't speak English. He packed a meat mixture into balls and hummed loudly.

Then I heard something else, a sound coming from a vent near one of the ovens.

It was Gianna's voice from Jane Attilio's apartment upstairs.

I listened harder, but AJ came into the kitchen and interrupted my eavesdropping.

He had tied a red bandanna around his head in a rock star kind of way.

“I want one,” I said about the bandanna. He pulled one out of a drawer. My hands were floury, so he tied it for me in a Little Red Riding Hood style—under my chin.

He laughed.

Even I chuckled a little before saying, “Come on, like yours.”

He switched it to the back of my head over my long, curly hair. I took a quick peek at my reflection in the stainless-steel oven door; it actually looked cool.

Just then Meataball rubbed against my legs. “Is there another bandanna?” I asked AJ.

He handed one to me, and I tied it around Meataball's neck, so he could be included. He purred.

“So, what are we doing here?” AJ asked.

“Making samples, just like the food court at the mall. It works there. Maybe it will here.” I brushed on more sauce, making sure to get all the way to the edges. I dipped a spoon into the sauce and put just a smidgen on my lips. “I just love it. I swear I could sit in this pot all day, like a sauce hot tub.”

“I'd go in with you,” he said. “We'd need a big pot.” He rolled out his own crust and swirled sauce on it.

“What's your fave topping?” I asked.

“Duh! Anchovies.”

“Really?” This was a drag. In my experience, ham and pineapple wasn't a match with anchovies. At least I didn't think so. After all, I was still a beginner at this matching stuff.

I finished off my pizza with fresh mozzarella and Italian sausage, with a dash of Parmesan cheese and oregano.

AJ put my masterpiece on a wooden board and showed me how to slide the pizza into the oven and take the board out.

“Do you have little plates that we can serve the samples on?” I asked.

“White paper pie plates?” He indicated a stack resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which I'd called the Leaning Tower of Pizza until, like, two years ago.

If Gianna was here, she'd have used fancy scrapbook scissors to give each plate pretty edges and then decorated them with markers and glitter, and maybe hung ribbon from the bottom. “They'll work.”

AJ looked into the pizza oven. “It's done.” He went to open it, but I put my hand on the silver handle keeping it closed.

“A few more seconds for
extra
crispiness.”

“One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four—get the pizza cutter—Mississippi,” he said.

I grabbed the rolling pizza cutter.

“Five—I think this is a good idea—Mississippi,” he said. “Six—and it smells good—Mississippi.”

I said, “Seven—but you also liked Pizzeria de Roma's yucky pizza—Mississippi.”

He said, “Eight—I was really hungry—Mississippi.”

“Nine—you're going to love this—Mississippi.”

“Ten—can we stop now—Mississippi?”

“Yes—Mississippi.”

AJ opened the oven door and in one quick swoop slid the wooden board under my rectangular pizza, gently removed it, and carried it to a cutting board that was lightly sprinkled with flour. AJ smacked the round cutter into the crust and quickly ran it from one side to the other, making bite-size squares. I put each one on a paper plate.

Soon I'd filled a tray. “Are you going to try one?” I asked.

“Duh.”

We each took a square. I crunched into mine and enjoyed the melted cheese and salty Italian sausage.

AJ said, “Mmm.
So
good.”

“That's the reaction we're looking for. Let's go before it gets cold.”

On our way out, a deliveryman who reminded me of a tanned Santa Claus came in the back door with bread. “
Buongiorno!
” he cried with a huge smile.

“Buongiorno!”
I returned the same excitement and gave him a sample.

“Delizioso!”
His stomach shook like a bowl full of jelly.

We left the cook and deliveryman speaking in rapid-fire Italian and strolled down the alley. I looked in each of the closed shops and thought about how sad it was that these businesses had closed because more modern stores had opened on the main piazza. That was sad with a scoop of bummer on top.

We stood at the end of the piazza opposite Pizzeria de Roma, in sight of the crowds of people—both tourists and locals.

I called, “Amore Pizzeria here! Free samples!”

People looked but didn't come over. I tried again, “Come and get your free sample from Amore Pizzeria!”

A couple of tourists—fanny packs are a dead giveaway—came over.

“Help yourself.” I held out the tray.

I saw a girl looking at me from a distance. I called to her, “Would you like to try a free sample? Bring your friends, too.”

Soon I was surrounded by people. When
other
people saw the crowd, they came over to see what was going on too. I called out, “This pizza is from Amore, which is behind me at the end of that cute street. It's traditional pizza made with a signature secret sauce that's been passed down for generations. My aunt Maria won't even tell me what's in it. That's how secret it is!”

(Like I said, a good story has a select few perfect details. Like telling them the sauce was from a secret family recipe. People love that stuff!)

Everyone smiled and seemed to enjoy their pizza samples. Several started walking down the quiet little alley.

I said, “Maybe you should get crust ready at the shop.”

“Roger that,” AJ said, copying my trademark phrase I'd used earlier. He grinned at me, showing off his dimples.

I can't believe someone this cute could like anchovies.

I entertained the sample-eating crowd. “Aunt Maria goes to the vegetable auction every three days for the best, naturally ripe tomatoes.” I added, “To keep the recipe secret, she does it late at night when no one's around. She learned from her mother, who learned from her mother. It's written down and locked in a safe that can only be opened upon her death. Her last will and testament specifies which family member will inherit the recipe.”

I didn't know that any of this was true, but I didn't know for a fact that it was
un
true.

The crowd oohed and aahed about the samples and listened to every word.

I said, “Amore Pizzeria is just at the end of this street. Come on down for some traditional Italian pizza. I can smell it from here!”

My tray was empty, and a small group of people started moving toward the alley.

With part one of my two-part plan complete, I hustled back to the restaurant, where three tables had seated themselves and more customers waited by the door.

AJ took orders and delivered drinks. When he walked past me, he said, “More samples are finished in the oven.”

“Roger that,” I said. I quickly swished the board under the rectangular pie and cut it the way AJ had shown me. Then I walked around the shop, making personal deliveries and refilling drinks—mostly Cokes and fizzy water that they called
acqua frizzante
. I pointed to the family pictures on the walls and explained who was who. There were some people I didn't know much about, so I made up stories about them to keep customers amused until their lunches arrived.

“Grab those dishes and follow me.” AJ indicated steaming bowls of spaghetti—of course Amore served more than pizza—that Vito had set on the counter between the kitchen and dining room.

Aunt Maria walked in the front door, followed by a man in a business suit.

“My goodness,” she said. “Busy lunch today.”

“Yes,” I said.

She introduced the man, “This is Eduardo Macelli from the bank.”

I smiled. “Hi. Welcome to Amore Pizzeria. Will you be having lunch?”

“
Sì
,” he said.

“Follow me to this table just beneath a beautiful painting of the very port that my grandfather sailed from on his way to America. His name was Luciano. I was named after him,” I said. “My name is Lucy.”

Eduardo Macelli sat down. He was a petite man, bald and thin.

“Let me guess,” I said, studying him. “
Acqua fizzante
?”

“
Sì
.”

I returned to the kitchen, where Aunt Maria checked her sauce supply. “Be sure he gets the best service,” she said to me about Eduardo Macelli.

“I will.” I took him the last sample with his fizzy water. He bit into it. I waited for a reaction but didn't get one.

“Do you like it?”

“
Sì
.” It seemed Eduardo Macelli wasn't much of a talker.

I asked, “Do you know what kind of pizza you want?”

“Surprise me,” he said with a thick Italian accent and a straight face.

“I'll do that.”