“My pastry chef is working on a special dessert just for you,” Fabrizio continued. “We have a long time before we can get to that. So, first, an aperitivo? Negronis! And, if you’ll indulge me, I have a special plan for the menu. So, I can take these, okay?” He removed the menus from the table with a flourish and walked off without giving Cass or Miguel a chance to respond.
“Sorry about that,” Miguel said when he was gone. “This is why I don’t usually bring dates here—some people like to decide on their own meals. But it’s my favorite restaurant, and he’s right—you take the Charlie Goodwin out”—he raised an eyebrow and she felt her bush deepen—“you need to make sure she’s served the best food in town.”
“After the day I’ve had, I’m happy not to have to make any more food-related decisions at all,” Cass said with a smile.
A bartender delivered their ruby-hued drinks. Miguel leaned in and clinked his glass against hers. “What happened on set today?”
“Well, on the bright side, I kept Austin from stealing my recipe today. On the not-so-bright side, I’m still having trouble getting the hang of things. I’m always flubbing my lines, and Austin is always lording it over me . . .” She took in his befuddled expression and let her words trail away.
“What do you mean, ‘getting the hang of things’？”
“Having a studio audience,” she said quickly. “It’s throwing me off. I’m not used to having to interact with Austin, my confection, and an audience.”
To her relief, Miguel nodded. “I get it. Totally. When we moved from paper to tablets it took a while to adjust and really slowed me down at first. I like my routines, too.”
Just then a waiter arrived with a plate of stuffed zucchini blossoms, arranged like little works of art, all sunny yellows and verdant greens. “Almost too pretty to eat,” Cass murmured.
“True, but you’ll regret it if you don’t,” Miguel said, popping one into his mouth. She did the same, and moaned with happiness.
“Oh my goodness! What’s in these? I taste . . .” She paused, letting the flavors mingle on her tongue. “Fresh ricotta and lemon zest and . . . something else. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s sublime.”
“Don’t even bother asking,” Miguel said. “Every one of Fabrizio’s dishes has a secret ingredient or special twist, and he refuses to tell me what’s in them.”
“Why would I do that?” Fabrizio had appeared beside their table, two glasses of white wine on a tray in his hand. “My culinary secrets keep my favorite customers coming back for more. Now, try this with the blossoms. A vermentino. The perfect pairing. “He winked and set the glasses in front of them, then retreated.
“I like his passion,” Cass said. “That’s important in a chef.” And maybe something my life in Starlight Peak has been lacking . . .
Miguel’s and Cass’s eyes met in the flickering candlelight, and Cass reveled in the fact that she knew one thing for sure: this was definitely a date.
* * *
? ? ?
“I am never eating anything, ever again,” Cass said, staring at the empty dishes in front of them. Fabrizio had kept the food coming all night: first the zucchini blossoms; then a salad with vibrant green and red lettuces and shavings of a hard goat’s cheese, so simple and yet so perfect; then tiny bowls of ribollita, a bean and vegetable soup that was uncomplicated and yet, somehow, one of the most flavorful dishes Cass had ever tasted. This was followed by mushroom ravioli and a scampi pasta to share; and finally, a whole roasted branzino and side plates of grilled rapini and balsamic-glazed Brussels sprouts. “No exaggeration, this is the best food I’ve ever had.”
Miguel looked pleased. “Told you. He really has outdone himself tonight. I usually leave full, but tonight you might have to roll me out of here.”
As the meal had progressed, Cass’s nerves had quieted. Somehow, Miguel didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. More like someone she’d always known.
“Don’t forget to save room for dessert,” Miguel said. Cass groaned, unsure where she could fit another morsel. “Remember, they’ve got something special waiting for Charlie Goodwin, their guest of honor.”
Charlie Goodwin. Right. Miguel may have felt like someone she knew well, but he didn’t know her at all.
“Dessert for my guest of honor. Cannoli, struffoli, and zeppoli.” Fabrizio took the plates from the waiter’s hands and announced them as he placed them on the table. “And, finally . . .” He set a demitasse in front of each of them, the cups steaming with hot espresso and melting ice cream. “Affogato!”