A Taste Of Pleasure

Or at least she used to be.

After a light lunch in the lobby, Dani strolled the marble streets, visited the La Scala theater, awed at the sidewalks filled with busy café seating and strolled by the cathedral—which always took her breath away.

Dani texted her mother to join her at Via Carciofo, but her mother was already on her way to dinner with Chanel’s people. That was a good sign. So Dani put on her black lace dress and her heels and ordered a car to the restaurant.

It had been almost eight years since Dani had worked as a sous-chef at Via Carciofo. It was still the most beautiful restaurant she had ever seen. Tucked away in a secluded courtyard of one of Milan’s oldest hotels, vine-covered stone columns hid the small stairs that led to the mezzanine patio where twenty tables were perfectly staged with tea lights, white roses and fine china.

Back there time didn’t exist, hence the ambiguous hours of operation—open at dusk. The lack of time limits only enhanced the romance. Reservations were recommended and hard to come by. Once you booked a table, it was yours for the night, no matter what time you got there. And the kicker? There was no menu.

Upon securing a reservation the hostess noted any allergies or preferences. Once recorded, Chef designed a seven-course prix fixe menu of his choosing paired perfectly with two to three wine recommendations. She had never seen one dish come back to the kitchen. In this space, eating was purely for pleasure.

Dani’s heels clicked up the stone steps and she breathed in the fragrant pastel-colored lilies that lined the entrance. Easter was in a couple weeks and she made a mental joke that what she gave up for lent was her job. She slowed, wondering what to say to Marcello. How do you tell your mentor that you’ve given up on life?

The hostess was gracious when Dani told her she was just visiting Marcello and turned down her offer to be announced. Dani wanted her visit to be a surprise. She walked past the tables, glancing around to see if she recognized any of the servers. She didn’t. Then she looked for Wendall, the maître d’hôtel of almost forty years, but he was nowhere to be found. Strange. He never left the dining floor.

Reaching the bar, she ordered a drink and asked the bartender to tell Marcello someone had a complaint. Game for a prank, the bartender went to the back. She smiled, anticipating Marcello’s blustering red face. She heard a muffled crash of pots and pans and envisioned Marcello yelling at his staff. She smirked. She’d felt that rage and had given it to her own staff many times.

She turned to the packed tables to see if anyone else had heard. She saw only smiles and laughter while a bar back went table-to-table lighting the tea candles.

An audible shout came from behind the bar. Dani put down her drink and leaned over the bar. She spied someone sprint past the windows in the double doors. Something was wrong.

Dani pushed through the double doors. The wall of heat that assaulted her was forgotten when she saw the kitchen staff gathered around Marcello, who was laying supine on the floor in the bartender’s arms. His right hand held his left arm close to him and his face was scrunched with pain.

Wendall stood to the side with a phone to his ear speaking in urgent Italian. Dani’s Italian was rusty but she recognized the word for hospital.

“Signora, please. You cannot be in here.” One of the staff came forward. Dani ignored him, trying to get her head around the fact that the man that had once been like a father to her was having a heart attack.

Amid quizzical looks, she dropped her clutch and dropped to her knees, taking Marcello’s free hand.

“Marcello. It’s Dani,” she whispered through budding tears. He’d aged the superficial way men do. His hair was thinner and had turned white, but his face held few wrinkles.

Marcello pried his eyes open and they widened in recognition. His mouth hung slack with breaths and grunts. Dani could see him straining to speak, but he couldn’t form the words. Medics burst through the back door.

Dani backed away as they huddled around Marcello armed with medical supplies. In seconds his black chef’s coat was ripped open and monitors were attached to his chest. Dani feared the worst and wrung her hands as she prayed a silent prayer.

Servers came through the kitchen doors and stalled. No one moved as Marcello was strapped to a gurney and hooked to an oxygen tank. His eyes drifting open then closed. Dani watched the deep movement of his chest as they began to wheel him away.

As they passed by her, his arm shot out and swung at the air between them. She stepped forward, grasping his hand. His other pulled at the face mask.

“Per favore, I think he wants to say something,” Dani shouted.

“Cuh...Cuh...” Marcello stuttered.

“Chef, stay calm. I’m coming to the hospital.”

“Nuh.” Marcello shook his head. “Kit-en.”

Dani frowned. Kittens? “Marcello, put your mask back on. We can talk later at the hospital.”

Marcello rapidly shook his head and a medic stepped forward.

“Step back, signora. We must get him to the hospital.”

She did as she was told, watching the pointed look in Marcello’s eyes. The medics were quick to restrain him and the mask was placed back on his face, but not before she heard him speak one last time.

“Kitchen.”

The man was staring death in the face and he was concerned about the kitchen?

Wendall did a double take as he followed the gurney out the back door. “Danica? Oh, Dani! My God, it’s so good to see you.” He ran over and gave her a quick hug. When he pulled back, tears sprang to his eyes. “They are taking him to Milan General. I must go with him. Please, find Gianni, the sous-chef. Please!”

“Go. I’ll find him.”

Just as quickly as they arrived, the medics and Wendall departed, leaving Dani and the staff bereft in their wake.

No one moved. The hostess cried. The line cooks blinked. The waitstaff were gaping from inside the double doors.

A burnt smell filled the room. Dani looked around and saw filets burning. Pots boiled over. A steak was sitting idle on a plate under the heat lamps. Vegetables lay midchop.

Kitchen.

Dani looked around the room for the sous-chef, who would be attired in black just as Marcello was, but she only saw white coats.

“Which one of you is the sous-chef?”

Heads swiveled, but no one came forward. She asked again, this time in her choppy Italian. “And get those fillets off the burners. Now.” A line cook jumped.

The hostess came out of her stupor and raised her voice.

“Start shutting down. There will be no more service tonight. I’ll inform our guests that we will be closed for the unforeseeable future and—”

“You will do no such thing,” Dani interrupted.

“Signora, it seems you are a friend of the chef, but—”

“But nothing. Chef wants this kitchen open. And it will stay open. You have a room full of people out there expecting a Marcello Farina dining experience. Chef put his blood, sweat and tears into this restaurant. I’m not going to let you ruin that. I practically grew up in this kitchen, and I’m happy to stay and help. Now, where is your sous-chef?”

“Yes, where is Gianni?” the hostess asked the room.

“He’s on break in the cellar,” someone shouted.

“I’ll get him,” the hostess said, turning to leave. Dani stopped her.

“No, I’ll get him. I know where it is.” Dani had taken many breaks herself in the basement pantry. “You go out there and keep our guests happy.”

The hostess gave Dani a wary look, then walked through the double doors.

“Start two new fillets and put a steak on the fly. I’ll be right back.”