Lost in Rome (8 page)

I walked around and looked at the pizza orders. I got a good feeling when I passed a table of four younger guys who all spoke English and looked like American tourists. I thought maybe I could match two of the girls. Fifty percent wasn't too bad for a beginner.

I pulled an empty table next to the boys' and said, “Hey there, I have a bit of an issue. I hope you can help me out. We just redecorated, and the tiles on the floor are loose in some places where we repositioned them. Do you mind if I put this table closer to yours so that no one trips?” I didn't let them answer. “Of course you don't mind. You look like nice guys.” I pointed to one of them. “If you could just move down here to this chair—” The boys looked at each other, confused, but one of them started getting up. “Oh, not you.” I pointed to a different guy. “You.”

“Why me?” he asked.

“You have—um—a better—um—center of gravity. It will help equilibrate the tile sitch we've got, if you know what I mean.”

“Gravity?”

“Yup. It's all about gravity. Am I right or am I right?” I rambled. “Very scientific.”

One of them said, “Luke, dude, it's scientific. Just move.”

Luke moved where I'd said.

“And you.” I pointed to another one of them. “You sit here.” He moved where I said. I waved to the girls to fill in the empty seats. “These girls have higher gravity and better—um—cerebellum. It's a girl thing, you wouldn't understand.” Everyone got comfy. “Thank you all so, so much! You have no idea how helpful you've been.” I scooted away before anyone could object.

AJ returned with his empty sample tray and helped Vito cook. This lunch was going well.

At one o'clock Murielle duPluie from the Rome newspaper walked in with a photographer on her heels.

She and I sat at the two-top (that's a table for two) near the door, so I could hear if any more matching requests came in.

She said, “I always record interviews so that I'm sure to get the quotes just right.” She turned on a small tape recorder. “So tell me. How does this all work? The matches? And how did you get into this?”

“Well, I guess it all started because I like to be around people. If I'm ever home alone, I walk down the street to visit my mom at the office where she works. It's next to a pizza place. She gives me money to get a slice. Sometimes I hang out there and watch people. I started to notice things about people and their pizza.”

“Like what?”

“Like personality stuff.”

“For example?”

“People who like everything on their pizza—I call them ‘Everythings'—they're probably the easiest to describe. They're really outgoing, talkative, maybe a little loud.”

“And who do these Everythings match with?” Murielle duPluie asked.

“Well, there are a few possibilities. I can't really reveal my secrets, if you know what I mean. Plus, it isn't an exact science.”

“I understand. If you gave out all your formulas, anyone could be a Pizzeria Matchmaker.”

“Too true. But it's not just the pizza. I get a certain, I don't know, like a feeling from people. When I mix that feeling with the pizza—KABOOM!—I make a match.”

I saw her write “kaboom.” “And you knew when I ordered that I would match well with Angelo?”

“I looked at the pizza options in the room and went with my gut,” I said. “When I mixed up your checks, it was sort of an experiment to see if there was a spark. I provided the intro, and you did the rest.”

Just then I glanced over Murielle duPluie's shoulder to the window that looked out on the cobblestone street. Aunt Maria was coming back, earlier than planned.

Oh. No.

My thumb went to my ear, and I wiggled my fingers.

“Are you okay?” Murielle duPluie asked.

“Fine.” I called, “Gi!” into the kitchen.

Gianna saw my signal and Aunt Maria. She raced to the door to intercept her. “I'm so glad you're here,” she said to Aunt Maria. “Mmmm . . . errr . . .”

Gi, think fast.

“It's the sauce,” Gianna blurted out.

Meanwhile, I pointed to the pictures hanging on the wall facing away from the door and said to Murielle duPluie, “Let me tell you a story about this picture right here. You'll love this, really.”

I said, “That one is the house where this restaurant started.”

I glanced over to Eduardo Macelli. He was in such deep conversation with the two ladies I'd sat him with that he didn't notice Aunt Maria.

I continued, “People came from all around. . . .” I heard Aunt Maria say, “
Mamma mia!
What is this about the sauce?” She hurried toward the kitchen without noticing Eduardo Macelli, the reporter, or someone taking my picture. That's how important sauce was to Aunt Maria.

AJ appeared with a stack of take-out containers. “You must be in a hurry,” he said to Murielle duPluie and the photographer. “I wrapped up some tiramisu and rum cake for you guys to take with you.” To me, so that Murielle duPluie could hear, he said, “We have a matchmaking request for you. High priority. A complicated case.”

“Duty calls,” I said.

Murielle duPluie looked at her watch. “Just one more question. What's
your
favorite topping?” she asked me.

I smiled. “Umm. I, umm . . . I like ham and pineapple. But you really can't find that in Rome. It's an American thing.”

“Maybe you can introduce it to Italy.” She held her mic near AJ's mouth. “And you? What's yours?”

“I'm an anchovy guy. All the way. And you can quote me on that.”

She smiled and asked me, “Is anchovy a good match with ham and pineapple?”

“That's more than one question,” I said quickly. “I'll just say, ‘Come to Amore Pizzeria, and maybe you'll find your love.' ”

Murielle duPluie clicked off the recorder. “Thank you.
Merci
. This will be
formidable
. Maybe I can do a follow-up story in a few days and see how your skills are improving?”

“Sure.” I led her to the front door. As she walked away, I listened to her stiletto heels
clickety-clack
down the cobblestones.

When she was a safe distance away, I spun around. “That was close,” I said to AJ.

“You said ‘duty,' ” he said. “You know, like doody. Like poop.”

Boys!

I flew into the kitchen. Aunt Maria was tasting the sauce. “It is perfect.”

“Oh, phew,” Gianna said. “I thought maybe it wasn't warm enough.”

“Oh, you worry too much,” Aunt Maria said. She looked at the dining room and saw Eduardo Macelli. “He here?”

“I know,” I said. “If you had a cell phone, I could've called you to tell you.”

“No cell phone.” She went to talk to him. I held my breath for a minute and watched them talk. They laughed, hopefully over the confusion of the meeting place.

When the lunch rush slowed down, Gianna and I sat at the corner near the register with one of Amore's menus. She had an assortment of glitter pens, stickers, and stampers. Meataball sat on the extra menus.

I studied menu items. There were so many wonderful traditional Italian dishes. I wondered if maybe Amore could add a few American-inspired pizzas. I wrote descriptions of three combos that I missed in Rome, while Gianna doodled around the edges.

“How about we name these after American cities?” I suggested. “This one will be the New York, this one the Philadelphia, and this one the Los Angeles.”

“I love that idea. And I'll draw something from each city next to them—the Empire State Building, the Liberty Bell, and the Hollywood sign.”

The new menu was going to look great and offer some items that no other pizzeria in the area had.

“So,” Gianna began. “Rico's cute.”

“Sure,” I said.

“You know, it doesn't make sense to me that you're a matchmaker, yet you've never had a match of your own,” Gianna continued. “I mean, shouldn't the matchmaker have some experience in romance?”

“Umm . . . maybe. I guess.” Hm. I'd never really thought about it that way.

“Maybe this could be the summer that you have your first love?” Gianna teased.

I rolled my eyes. Saving Aunt Maria's shop and making matches were stressful enough—I didn't need any more drama in the kitchen!

Aunt Maria usually unlocked the Amore Pizzeria door at eleven o'clock in the morning. But the next day, when we were sweeping up the dining room from the work done on the walls the night before, we watched customers begin to gather out front at ten thirty.

“Who are all these people?” she asked. “Are they here because of your samples?”

“I guess so,” I said. “They were really good. After all, they have your sauce.” I tucked Aunt Maria's copy of
Il Messaggero
with Murielle duPluie's article under the counter where I kept my matchmaking notes, which were growing to a nice size.

Aunt Maria called to AJ and Vito, “You have some crust rolled out? I open the doors early.”

“Yup,” AJ said.

“Okay.” She asked me, “You can ask Gianna, Jane, and Rico to come down and help?”

I took the broom to the back corner of the store and knocked on the ceiling four times.

Knock—knock—knock—knock.

It was followed by four stomps. A minute later Gianna, Jane, and Rico walked in the back door.

“What's up?” Gianna asked.

Aunt Maria said, “We need the help today.” She pointed to the customers.

Rico said, “Food service is not really my gig.” He pushed a button on the copper espresso machine and watched hot brown liquid drip into a tiny ceramic cup. Then he leaned on the counter and sipped it. “I'll be your support system.”

“What is ‘gig'?” Aunt Maria took an apron off a hook and wrapped it around his waist. It was long, crisp, and white. She handed him a pad and pen. “There. You are the waiter. Gianna, you are the hostess. AJ, you are the assistant cook. Lucy, the waitress. Everybody has a job. Now,
andiamo.
Let's Go!”

Rico huffed and took his last sip of espresso.

“Just smile a lot,” Gianna said to him. “You'll be fine.”

I said to Gianna, “Let's check out those new votive candles you put in the dining room.” And I tugged her arm.

“What?” she asked. “I can see them from here. They're fine. But just look at that wall.” She pointed to the one that had been scraped with a wire brush last night. It revealed the original brick but still left speckles of white in the grooves. The result was a beautiful old-world feel that really captured traditional Rome and the personality of Amore Pizzeria. “It's more fab than I'd imagined it could be.”

“I know,” I said. “I just want us to have a plan for the matching.”

“You're gonna keep doing it?”