Very Valentine

Two couples remain, paying their checks. One pair holds hands across the table, their faces soft in the candlelight as they hover over their empty wineglasses; all that’s left of their meal is a hint of pink wine against the crystal.

The bartender, a beautiful girl in her twenties, cleans glasses behind the bar. She looks up at me. “We’re closed,” she says.

“I’m here to see Roman. I’m Valentine Roncalli.”

She nods and goes back to the kitchen.

A mural fills the back wall of the restaurant. It’s a scene of a Venetian palace at nightfall. Even though the palazzo looks like one of the wedding-cake samples in the window at Ferrara’s, with its ornate arches, open balconies, and crown of gold metallic crosses along the roofline, it is haunting rather than kitschy. Moonlight pours through the palace windows, lighting the canal in the foreground with ribbons of powder blue. It’s primitive in style, but there’s plenty of emotion in it.

“Hey, you made it.” Roman stands in the doorway that leads to the kitchen. His arms are folded in front of him and the expanse of his chest in the white chef’s jacket looks enormous, like the sail of a ship. He seems even taller this time; I don’t know what it is about him, but he seems to grow each time I see him. He has a navy blue banda

“You like the mural?” He keeps his eyes on me.

“Very much. I like the way the moonlight shines through the palace and onto the water. The palazzo, I mean. Or home of the doge,” I correct myself. After all, if this guy can seduce Gram with his Italian, the least I can do is throw around the only official architectural terms I know.

“It’s the Ca’ d’Oro, on the Grand Canal in Venice. It was built in 1421 and took about fifteen years to complete. The architects were Giova

“It’s impressive. Who painted it?”

“Me.”

Roman turns and goes into the kitchen, motioning for me to follow. I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar and instantly relax the number elevens between my eyes. As I follow Roman back to the kitchen, I make a mental note to ask my mother to pick up a box of Frownies for me, those stickers you moisten and place on wrinkles while you sleep. My mother used to go to bed with beige puzzle pieces adhered to the lines on her face, and she woke up with a complexion as smooth as Formica.

The kitchen is so tiny it makes the dining room seem grand. There’s a butcher block island (so small it should be called a sandbar) in the center. Overhead, about thirty pots of varying sizes hang on hooks on a large aluminum frame.

The far wall is covered with an aluminum backsplash for the wide, flat grill. Next to the grill are four gas burners in a row, not front and back like a stove in a home. The corner next to the gas burners is filled with a series of four ovens, stacked one over the other, looking like a mini-skyscraper with windows.

There’s a deep triple sink on the opposite wall. I stand next to three floor-to-ceiling refrigerators. A large dishwasher is tucked into an alcove by the back door, which is propped open, revealing a small terrace, fenced in with old painted lattices. The steam rises from the dishwasher, making fog in the cold night air.

“Are you hungry?” Roman asks.

“Yeah.”

“My favorite kind of woman. A hungry one.” He smiles. He helps me take off my coat, which I place on a rolling stool next to the door and anchor with my purse.

“There’s an apron on the hook.”

“I have to work for my supper?”

“That’s the rule.”

Behind me, sure enough, there’s a clean white apron. I pull it over my head; it has the scent of bleach and has been pressed with starch. Roman reaches around me and crosses the strings in the back then reaches around to the front of my waist, tying the ends in a tight bow. Then he pats my hips. I could have done without the hip patting, but it’s too late. I’m here and he’s patting. “Go with it,” I tell myself. Roman places a large wooden spoon in my hand.

“Stir.” He points to a large pot on a low flame. Inside, a mound of soft, golden risotto glistens, a fragrant mist of sweet butter, cream, and saffron rising from the pot. “And don’t stop.”

The soles of my sandals stick to the matting on the floor, a series of open rubber rectangular sheets placed around the work areas.

Roman drops to one knee and unties the ribbons on my evening sandals, silver calfskin in a gladiator style with flat white ribbons that lace up past my ankle. As he slips the sandal off my foot, the warmth of his hand sends a chill up my spine.

“Nice shoes.” He stands.

“Thanks. I made them.”

“Here.” He pulls a pair of red plastic clogs like his own from under the island. “Wear these. I didn’t make them.” Then he removes my left sandal and slips on the other clog, just like the prince in Cinderella.

I take a step in them. “I’m a delicate size nine. What are these? Fifteens?”

“Twelve and a half. But you don’t have to do a lot of walking in them. You’ll be stirring for the duration.” He takes my shoes and dangles them on the hook where the aprons go. “I’ll be right back,” he says and goes out into the restaurant.

As I stir, I look down at my feet, which now remind me of the feet of the kid on the Dutch Boy paint billboard in Su

Now that I’m alone, I give the kitchen a real once-over. My eyes travel up over the sink to a framed picture of a naked woman in profile, with huge hooters, leaning against a pile of dirty dishes. She winks at me. The caption reads: A WOMAN’S WORK IS NEVER DONE.

“That’s Bruna,” Roman says from behind me.

“That’s quite a stack of dishes.”

“She’s the patron saint of kitchens.”

“And chefs?” I’ll keep my eyes on the risotto from now on.

He takes the spoon from me. “So, why did you decide to call me?”

“You asked me, and I have excellent ma

“I don’t think that’s it.” He puts a tiny amount of salt in his hand and sprinkles it into the pot. “I think you might like me a little.”

“I’ll be able to tell you for sure after I taste your cooking.”

“Fair enough.” Roman shakes his head and grins.

The busboy enters from the restaurant with a large pan of dirty dishes. He places them in the sink. They converse in Spanish as Roman reaches into his pocket and gives him several twenty-dollar bills. The busboy thanks him, peels off his apron, and goes.

“Roberto has another job, at another restaurant,” Roman explains. “Someday he’ll have his own. I started out washing dishes, too.”

“How many employees do you have?”

“Three full-time, me, the sous-chef and the bartender. Three part-time, the busboy and two waiters. The restaurant seats only forty-five, but we’re booked up every night. You must know what it’s like, ru

I move to the sink and turn my back on Bruna. “You must be doing a little better than getting by. You were looking at an apartment in the Richard Meier building.”

“The broker was showing me a potential restaurant space on the street level. Then she offered to show me an apartment.” He smiles. “I was curious. That’s when I saw you.” Roman takes the spoon from me and stirs the risotto. “That’s some building your grandmother owns.”