Bobby is already more than halfway through his. “But you’re still gonna, right?”
I nod, not even sorry. The sandwich is smoky and rich, heaven in a bun. We walk and eat, soaking in the atmosphere, the low background hum of generators adding an air of fairground. People shout and laugh, a market-day-like jostle, and I feel myself relax into it, enjoying the change of scene. And what a scene it is. Glittered streamers and lights span the buildings over our heads, and everyone milling around below is here for the same thing—to feast. It speaks to my chef’s heart in a language I understand, and it jolts me how much I miss creating new dishes and the joy of watching people eat. Cooking up bowl after bowl of noodles is soothing in its own way, but I’m really just trying to imitate the authenticity of Bobby’s aunt rather than pave my own path or come up with my own dishes. Being around all this creativity and culinary joy reminds me what drew me to kitchens in the first place: the heat, the urgency, the deep satisfaction. I miss it all viscerally, another piece of me temporarily lost because of Adam Bronson. There are lots of those pieces—my career, my self-worth, my confidence, the things that made me feel like me. I imagine them all lined up on the shelf of an emotional lost-property office waiting for me to reclaim them. I will. I am. Slowly, but I am.
We follow the sandwiches with sweet, ricotta-stuffed cannoli and I lean on Bobby, laughing as I swoon.
“This was your best idea yet,” I say.
“I have lots of others,” he says. “Just say the word.”
I appreciate his unpushy nature a great deal, he’s such easy company to be in. I know he worries I don’t get out enough. He’s probably right. In truth, the dentist is probably the social highlight in my calendar. It’s not that I’m the reclusive type, per se, just that I was at rock bottom when I arrived in New York and it’s taken some time to rebuild myself. Maybe that does look reclusive from the outside, especially against the bells-and-whistles backdrop of New York, but it’s been restorative for me up to now. I’ve got Bobby and Robin, and there’s Bobby’s niece Shen too. She’s the kind of nineteen-year-old who could run the world in her lunchtime if she so chose, but prefers to serve noodles to Bobby’s customers between taking classes and dancing her way across the city every night. She’s a pretty decent chef too, always happy to take over at the stove if I need a night off, which isn’t very often. And then there’s Smirnoff, who isn’t technically my cat or Bobby’s; he’s lived in our building longer than either of us and seems to have full jurisdiction over where he parks his furry orange behind. Some nights he chooses my sagging green armchair, while other nights he’s full stretch on Bobby’s windowsill, watching the street shift down below. And then there are nights when he doesn’t come in at all. I like to imagine him scaling the zigzag metal fire escape to prowl the perimeters of the building or visiting a glamorous Persian for a late-night booty call. In reality he’s probably on someone else’s sofa eating someone else’s food—he’s pretty shameless when it comes to taking what he wants. We should all be a bit more Smirnoff.
Music cranks up from loudspeakers just along the street, and Bobby tugs me by the hand to follow the herd, crooning an almost-impressive rendition of “That’s Amore” as we go.
“You have to see this,” he says, finding us a spot on the sidelines. “Meatball-eating competition.”
The crowd parts as he speaks, clapping as they allow a line of waiting staff bearing huge silver trays of meatballs to march through the center toward a raised stand where a line of contestants sit ready for battle.
“I wonder how someone becomes an eating-contest champion,” I marvel, gazing along the everyday faces of the men and women each about to consume enough food to feed a small village.
A sequin-clad woman gives a rousing rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and then they’re off, stuffing as many meatballs as they can into their faces, washing them down with bottle after bottle of water. The crowd goes mad for it, shouting encouragement, and I watch as the contestants eat with varying degrees of gusto, sauce on their chins and T-shirts. It’s crazy, over-the-top and feel-good, a gluttonous celebration of this vibrant Italian corner of New York.
Afterward we buy bracing shots of limoncello and cardboard trays of hot, sugared zeppole, stepping off the sidewalk into the tiled doorway of a closed shop for shelter as the heavens open.
“I’ll admit it. This was fun.” I rest my backside on the traditional wooden window ledge. I’m warm inside my jacket, potent alcohol sliding into my bloodstream.
“I see you, Iris Raven. Food is the magic key to getting you out of your apartment.” Bobby turns his back against the door. “I’ll find more food-related adventures for us to go on.”
“If it’s anything like this, count me in.”
I won’t need to eat for at least a week, yet still I reach for another melt-in-the-mouth zeppole, brushing powdered sugar from my fingers. Bobby pulls his phone from the back pocket of his sprayed-on jeans, and as he bends to recover a pack of gum that has fallen out at the same time, I catch sight of the shop’s painted glass door behind him. I go perfectly still and stare intently at it, my head to one side, because it’s jarringly familiar. I’ve seen it somewhere before, I’m certain. I just can’t put my finger on where.
“What is this place?” I say, cupping my hands to peer through the side window. It’s in shadows inside, but I can make out the black-and-white checkerboard floor and oxblood leather stools lining the counter.
“Belotti’s gelateria,” Bobby says, not looking up from his phone. “I’m surprised they’re closed during the festival actually, there’s always a line.”
I shoot him a testy look. “Is it as good as mine?”
“How could it be?” Bobby’s sigh is pure theater. “If I meant anything to you, you’d let me put that stuff on the menu in the restaurant.”