Some Italian airports are fabulous because they are named after exciting and adventurous people. Rome has the Fiumicino Leonardo da Vinci, and Venice has Marco Polo. I enjoy soaking up the ambiance of a place from the moment of arrival until I leave, especially in a city like Rome, with a history spanning twenty-eight centuries.
I took the Leonardo Express train to Termini station in Rome Central. We arrived late at our destination, but, as with most things Italian, timings are only there as a guideline. I’d booked a hostel mentioned in my Dad’s journal, hoping, at least in part, to retrace his journey.
Ostello Bello was within walking distance from the Colosseum and handy for the three job interviews I’d lined up. One position in particular interested me because the Trattoria Bella was in Venice, whereas the others were Rome-based.
Once settled into my dorm room, shared with five other girls who were out when I arrived, I sat outside in a small cordoned-off cafe area owned by the hostel.
I watched a handsome man wearing jeans and a trendy t-shirt with a blue linen jacket thrown over the shoulder saunter in a beeline towards the hotel. He admired, then winked and smiled at every woman of childbearing age on his way across the piazza.
“Are you Carla, my dear?”
“Yes. Do I look like a bewildered foreign chef?”
“No. I checked you out on Linkedin and saw an icon-sized image that does you no justice, but I can still recognize you. I’m Luca from Bella’s.”
I shifted my square congealed pizza slice sideways, convinced a thousand chef’s graves in Italy had turning corpses about now. When I stood up and shook Luca’s hand, he grimaced at my food choice.
“We can go elsewhere if you’d prefer, Luca. This isn’t a foodie’s hotel, but it’s cheap and clean, and my father stayed here many years ago.”
“Do you mind another place, please? It looks like someone scraped leftovers from the bottom of a swill bin and spread it on a slice of bread before grilling.”
I chuckled, left twenty euros under my cappuccino saucer, and chased after my interviewer across the piazza, sidestepping a few street vendors still trying their luck in the late afternoon.
“You have a nice smile, Carla.”
“Thank you.”
“Bella will wipe that off your face after a few weeks.”
My blood ran cold, not so much from the words he used but from the casual manner in which Luca delivered them. He stopped suddenly and shut his mouth, scowling as if catching himself on amid saying something he shouldn’t.
I feared the worst when he turned sideways to me and smiled sweetly. In the face of having compromised himself, it wouldn’t be surprising for Luca to ditch me and end the liability of having someone around who might reveal his indiscretion in the future.
How the fuck could this be over so fast?
“Forget I said that, please, Carla.”
“It’s tough to promise you that because I rarely lie when asked a straight question. I can promise I won’t speak of it to anyone, though, because I never tittle-tattle. Would you mind explaining what you meant, please?”
“Let’s get to a decent cafe where the chef hasn’t destroyed good taste first, then I shall explain.”
We arrived at a small cafe and sat outside on simple slatted wooden chairs pulled up to a wrought-iron table painted a powder blue that had faded in the sun long ago. I enjoyed the late afternoon warmth and a few final rays of retreating sun that cast delightful shadows here and there.
Kids laughed and played in the shade of their four-storey apartment buildings, having completed homework. Old ladies returned from buying cheap groceries at the market before it closed, and young guys donned trendy jackets, ripping down tight alleyways on Vespa’s, riding one-handed.
“Wine Carla?”
“Yes, please. I’ll have Orvieto classico.”
“How do you know they have that here?”
He studied me with an intensity like the pointed blade of a head chef who would gut their understudy for an over-poached egg.
“You wouldn’t have brought me here if they didn’t serve Orvieto. A light citrus base with a hint of pear is a perfect summer tipple that won’t ruin your dinner.”
“Hmm. Anyone could have read that in Decanter magazine.”
“I’m guessing dinner will be a brisket or some other such over-flavored crap, right?”
“You’re fucking sassy, too. I like you, Carla. Why do you believe I’ll dine on brisket?”
I studied him momentarily, enjoying lining Luca up in my sights. I probably wouldn’t get the job now and didn’t give a fuck anymore, so I would impress hugely or crash and burn, just like Daddy.
“Because you run a Trattoria in Venice and serve a lot of fish.”
“You’ll have to do better than that, Carla.”
“You follow tradition and don’t have a menu, cooking everything fresh and to order. You like to home cook from scratch, but not knowing how many customers will buy means you can’t prepare a dish that must stew on low heat for six hours. Fish is perfect for the customers and allows you to show off your flair, but that can get boring when you have to eat what the customers order daily.”
His eyes widened, and I knew Luca was impressed. The question was, would I intimidate him? Was there enough space in his kitchen for me to exist alongside his ego? I detected admiration in his smile again.
“So you believe that I indulge in meat when I visit Rome?”
I leaned over the table to intimidate Luca with my beauty and to impress upon him that I knew my shit. He looked fascinated and a little turned on, probably wondering if he might tame me in bed.
“I’m right, though, aren’t I? It’s brisket tonight, and I’m guessing you’ll have a wine reduction with it to kick the arse out of the richness of the meat.”
He jerked out of a trance and laughed. After Luca slugged a mouthful of his wine, he chuckled again, waving an Italian-style traffic cop's hand at me, all fingers and wrist.
“Yes. And I’ll confess to being a little impressed by you, Carla. That’s never happened to me before, and I wasn’t expecting it from a foreigner.”
“You mean an American?”
“No. I hold all foreigners in equal contempt. You Americans don’t have a monopoly on bad taste.”
“I can think of a few thousand of your countrymen and women in New York that might disagree. Back home, we don’t serve sliced, grilled shit like you saw me contemplating at the hostel.”
“Haha, okay, you caught me out. I actually love Americans with their massive cars, baseball, and pitchers of ice-cold lager. We’ll have to pick up our debate about brisket another time because I’d like to understand what mental illness causes you to refer to it as crap.”
I rested in my chair to read his body language, but our waiter interrupted me. The surrounding atmosphere was electric and charged with sexual tension. Luca ordered our drinks politely and waited until we had privacy again.
“Perhaps you could join me for dinner. How do you like your meat?”
“Precisely how I like my men, Luca.”
He licked his lips, took another sip, and crossed his legs.
“Hmm. I’m guessing a bit saucy, right?”
I shook my head and smiled suggestively, reeling him in. Luca eyeballed me, and I watched a thousand bulls gallop through his eyes, each filled with testosterone and semen. My Italian head chef and new boss were figuring out how best to close in on the fastest-ever sous chef fuck of his life.
“Sauted perhaps, Carla?”
“Skewered!”
“Ouch! Haha hahaha. I really like you, girl. You have balls bigger than the ones they kick around at Stadio Olimpico.”
I felt a massive release of pent-up tension and was glad to have deterred my first Lothario casual sex attacker with a twist of grit and a slice of moxie. I sipped my wine and examined the man, who was close to thirty years old and five years my senior.
“If you fucked me, your wife Bella would fuck you with a carving knife, Luca. Not a good end for a nice guy or my new job.”
“Aha! You figured that out, too?”
“Yeah. To be that much of a pain in your ass, she must be the boss in the Trattoria and at home. I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Oh, so you already have the job, then?”
“Yeah, and you’re wholly impressed to have hired me, right?”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t have to sleep with you to get retained. Just imagine having an understudy who won’t ever fuck you, Luca. We can have so much fun experimenting with our first love together.”
“Food?”
“Yeah.”
He grinned and raised a glass, toasting me.
“Here’s to you, Carla—my favorite ever sous chef. I think we shall make many people happy. Just not each other.”
He tapped his glass to mine, shot an expression conveying his enormous newfound respect, and we sipped, savoring an exquisite vintage while enjoying the aftermath of our first set in mental tennis.
40–30 on Carla’s service, I think.
I breathed a huge sigh of relief because Venice was where Dad began his real culinary journey. I’d avoided sexual exploitation, broken the ice with a new mentor, and got hired at my first interview.
Not fucking bad, Carla.
Luca was a handsome man, and after a few dates, maybe we’d have kissed, but I’d never been one for stepping on the girl code to reach another woman’s property and wasn’t starting now, especially for a man whore.
“Dinner then, Carla? I think they have skewered lamb as well.”
I laughed and nodded, praying Luca had placed me firmly in his friend zone, which is where I had him.
Dinner was great, and this being my first proper meal in Italy, it confirmed everything my father had claimed about his favorite culinary destination. A low buzz of conversation accompanied by perfect service, infinite wine supply, and excellent food lifted me onto a cloud of culinary contentment.
I fingered my wine glass, swirling the contents and studying Luca, excited about Trattoria Bella.
“You were going to explain about Bella.”
“Bella is… She is… Bella is… Well, she’s wonderful, to be honest. I love her in every way, but she’s fucking maddening, as you will find out.”
“That’s intimidating.”
“Nah, really… forget what I said. Bella wants everything to be perfect, and she is the boss, so of course, sometimes we fight, but she has a heart of gold and will be especially endeared to you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll tell her you didn’t sleep with me.”
“I didn’t sleep with you… I won’t sleep with you… ever.”
“I know, Carla.”
“Did others?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately, Bella believes they did.”
I didn’t ask who it was unfortunate for, deciding to set early boundaries and stay on my side of them.
Luca chuckled and raised a glass as though one forced incident of fidelity to his wife, among many affairs, was something to celebrate with honor. I wondered how many graves in the local churchyard had more than one body buried in them courtesy of Bella and a string of slutty sous chefs.
Luca walked me back to my hostel insistent he wouldn’t sleep until knowing I was safely ensconced in a dormitory full of female backpackers. He offered to come up and meet the other girls, but I said they told me they’d be out till late.
He held up both hands, indicating he meant no harm.
“I’ll collect you from here tomorrow, 9 a.m. Don’t be late, Carla.”
“I never am.”
He turned away and sauntered into the semi-darkness, probably searching for a more amenable bed partner for the night. I heard his low tone grumble while he talked to himself.
“I fucking hate people who are late.”
“I do, too, Luca.”
He spun around with both hands tucked in his front jeans pockets, walking backward. Luca smiled, withdrew a hand, pointed at me, and waved.
Upstairs, my dorm room was a mess of clothes, hair extensions, and beauty products, with scattered damp towels and empty junk food wrappers. Cheap perfume and stale takeout permeated the room, so I quietly opened a window before almost retching. The girls’ discarded tampons were unused, and I was grateful to the universe for that small mercy.
The girls I’d be rooming with all slept soundly amid the carnage that is created by young, single, filthy women away from home. I stepped over their blouses, knickers, and bras, taking the only remaining bunk.
When I undressed, one girl slipped her blindfold aside to check out the disturbance. She shot me a suggestive smile and beckoned, wide-eyed, before lifting a corner of her duvet while shuffling her ass backward.
“Mmm, you look nice.”
“You’re imagining me, sweetie; go back to sleep because I’m far too old and irritable for a beauty like you.”
I was probably three biological years older than her, but the difference between us was decades in terms of maturity. She had a whole slutty adventure in front of her, including extensive sexually transmitted diseases, period sex, anal, and, maybe, if she really was unlucky, an unwanted pregnancy with no clue who the father was.
Who was I to stand between her and a life of decadence ending in tears? I swayed like a leaf falling gently from an oak tree while floating towards my bunk on tiptoes, pretending to be an angel.
She put on an excellent, please come and spank me bratty smile, which was sweet but not enticing enough to dissolve my panties. I slipped on an old T-shirt of Dad’s with far too many holes and slid under a warm, fluffy duvet.
I don’t set alarms because I wake up daily at 6:30 a.m.
Next Chapter:
Oh I love this series Kate. Your prose is lyrical and your magnificent descriptive talent fills the chapter with life, fun and vibrancy. Sassy Carla is a joy, and I look forward to the interplay between her, Luca and Bella. You never disappoint.