Free The Queen of Minor Disasters by Antonietta Mariottini Page A

have
invested so much of our time into the restaurant. It seems crazy that my
parents would even think of
selling it.
    This is worse than an incurable disease.
    Ok, I don’t mean that. But
still, this is bad.
    Slowly, images of the
restaurant start filling my head like leaves falling from a tree. I see the
first day we opened, watching my parents cut through the ceremonious red tape
over the front door. Then I flash to Lorenzo and I playing war in the storage
room, then, years later, stealing drinks from the bar. I literally grew up in
that place, and just the thought of it closing is too much to handle. How could
they do this?
    “How could you do this?” Mario
echoes my thoughts.
    “It was time to sell,” my dad
responds as if he is talking about an old car.
    “When did you decide this?”
Mario asks. He looks flustered and I don’t blame him. He’s the general manager
of the restaurant. How could my parents make the decision without even telling
him first? I mean, talk about pulling the rug right out from under ya.
    “A buyer approached us about a
month ago,” my dad says remaining calm. He takes his seat and reaches for an
apricot tartlet. “And he made us an offer we couldn’t refuse.” He winks at his
own reference to The Godfather . 
I image Luca Brasi holding a gun to my dad’s head, while Don Corleone assures
him that either his signature or his brains will end up on the paper. Clearly
he was pressured into it.
    We don’t have to stand for
this. I’ll go to the feds if I have to. Rat out whatever goon was behind this.
    “So you already sold it?”
Mario asks just as I’m imagining myself as Connie smashing all of her dishes.
It’s always been a secret fantasy of mine to be able to recreate that scene.
Minus the whole husband beating the hell out of me part.
    My parents look at each other.
“Yes. He wanted a fast deal,” my mom explains. Her voice sounds as if she’s
pleading with Mario. She knows her son well.
     Mario stands and throws his
napkin on the table. He moves to leave the table.
    “Mario, sit down,” my father
says standing up but my brother doesn’t listen and walks right out of the
restaurant. My father follows him.
    The rest of us just sit there
in shock, and I’m pretty sure not even this dessert is going to make me feel
better.

Recipe: Bananas
Foster (for when your life goes up in flames)
    Yields 4 servings
     
    This is a simple version—your
life is complicated enough. But trust me ladies, you’ll love this one.
     
    1 stick butter
    1/2 cup light brown sugar,
packed
    4 firm bananas (peeled and cut
into 1/4” rounds)
    1/4 cup dark rum
     
    1)       Melt butter in a large saucepan over medium heat.
    2)       Add brown sugar and stir until dissolved.
    3)       Add bananas and cook until caramelized (about 5
minutes).
    4)       Add the rum and, using a long lighter, ignite the
flambé. (Be careful, the flame will rise pretty high.)
    5)       Let the flame die down on its own, then spoon the
bananas in individual bowls and serve with vanilla ice cream.
     
     
     
     

Chapter 6
Ok, just to recap. It’s July 1 and in exactly
fifty-nine days, I’ll be twenty-eight. Which wouldn’t be such a big deal if I
    1)                   Had a fiancé
    2)                   Had a job.
    But since both prospects are
out the window (It’s been three weeks and Drew hasn’t called once. And to make
matters worse, my parents really are selling La Cucina, which means that come
Labor Day when Lorenzo’s closes, I’m jobless), I’ve hit freak-out mode.
                I just keep telling myself to calm down.
    There are plenty of jobs I can do.
    Plenty.
    I mean, I went to college for
God’s sake. That has to count for something .
    I’ve been trying to think of
this rationally, once the initial shock wore off and all. Pietro and Dante have
made me see that this is a good thing.
    An opportunity .
    Granted, neither one of