Marcello strolled in, turning heads as he moved toward me. “You want to learn to cook like an Italian, why am I not just teaching you? I am Italian, no?” he said, kissing my cheeks quickly.
“Will I end up naked before we make dinner?” I whispered, pouring him a glass of wine from the nearby table.
“I cannot guarantee that,” he told me, taking a sip and winking over the glass.
I laughed and kissed him soundly, loving the sweet wine on his lips.
The instructor, looking every bit the Italian chef, came out from the back of the room and welcomed all of us to class His assistant handed out aprons along with a small instruction card, followed by a tour of the kitchens, which were pristine.
And now it was time to get to work. We were going to rotate through stations so that everyone got to have a hand in the preparation instead of one group getting to do one thing beginning to end.
To his credit, Marcello paid attention, even offering to chop parsley when the chef asked for volunteers. “Remember, you eat with your eyes first,” Chef Andrea said, explaining that we needed to be careful and take pride in our work. “We don’t want any ugly food. These may be rustic dishes, but you want them to look appetizing.”
“You look appetizing,” Marcello whispered, his breath smelling faintly like the wine and basil he was chewing on.
“Stop,” I admonished, trying to concentrate on my very glamorous task of chopping garlic.
“Good, good. Remember, celery, carrots, and onions for the Bolognese. No garlic. No matter what anyone say, garlic is not in everything.” Chef Andrea laughed, repeating the veggie list. “Just most things,” he added, scooping up a handful of garlic and lifting it to his nose.
The groups worked quietly, sipping wine, laughing here and there, but everyone paying very close attention to detail. A videographer bounced around documenting the class for the local American college, hoping to bring in new students. He caught me dipping my finger in the tiramisu filling and feeding it to Marcello.
“Avery, good job. You two move to the pasta next,” the assistant said, pointing to the stainless steel tables with an old-fashioned crank pasta machine.
We peeled potatoes, slathering them with olive oil and rosemary before lining a baking sheet with them. We pureed sauce, cut pasta, rolled gnocchi down tiny lined wooden boards, and stuffed chickens with lemons, garlic, and onions.
The class wasn’t just about learning how to do each step but about the food. Why the garlic is good for your heart. What makes a traditional Bolognese versus a knockoff version. Why some recipes differed by region. The chef took every question and answered it as if it was the most important thing he’d ever heard.
My apron was covered in semolina and Marcello had a smudge of tomato sauce on his cheek, but we got off easy. Some students had nicks from the ultrasharp knives and sported bandages on their thumbs. Others had imbibed a bit too much wine and had to sit out and wait for dinner.
In the end, we had perfectly al dente gnocchi that we scooped from the boiling water just as they started to float, freshly shaved pecorino in bowls for sprinkling over our hearty pappardelle Bolognese. The potatoes were steaming in a ceramic bowl, the rosemary perfuming the room. Silver platters held the chicken, peppers, and cacciatore sauce.
We sat along the table, sipping wine and digging into the food eagerly. Five hours we spent together, and in many ways, we came out of it with new friends. Marcello even signed us up for another class.
We tumbled into bed that night still smelling faintly of rosemary, too stuffed with wonderful food to do anything more exciting than cuddle and whisper into the night.
I WAFFLED ABOUT ALL MORNING. There was coffee and frittata at the counter with a copy of La Repubblica, an Italian daily newspaper. I couldn’t read a lot of it but I was working on that. I moved into the living room to continue tinkering with a sketch I’d started the day before of the Bramante Staircase. It was probably the most difficult landmark I’d worked on while in Italy, but I was hell-bent on getting the shading right. The lights hit the highlight in such a way that the spiral staircase turns into an optical illusion. Another trip to the Vatican Museum might be necessary.
But no matter where I was in the house or what I was doing, one eye was always on the clock, counting each tick until it inched close enough to eleven that I felt justified in throwing on clothes and surprising Marcello at the office.
I breezed inside, carrying two bags of pastries that would make American donuts weep with inferiority.
Of course I had a cornetto for me.
“Ciao, buongiorno,” I told the secretary, dropping the still-warm bag of goodness on her desk. “Is Marcello free?”
She waved me back before happily digging into the bag.
His office was empty. His jacket was on the back of his chair and his cell was tossed on the seat, but no Marcello. I was about to leave him a note with the bag when I felt his hands circle my waist. His lips touched the skin between my shoulder and my neck, and he bit down slightly.
“I smell maritozzi. Is that for me?” he said, nibbling as if I were the pastry.
“Yes.” I gulped, turning around to face him. “I stopped at that little place just up the street that we love. It’s all yours.”
“Mmm, grazie. Are you staying to share it? I can feed it to you,” he offered, opening the bag and inhaling deeply.
I was quickly becoming addicted to the way he savored food. You’d think living in Rome, growing up with the magnificence that is Italian cuisine, you wouldn’t go full food orgasm over everything, but he did. Goddamn was I grateful for it.