“I don’t know how much use I’m going to be,” I say, anxious to play my role down.
“British?” she asks.
I nod.
“But you live here now, right, you’re not just passing through on holiday or anything?”
“What is this, Soph? An interrogation?” Gio says.
“I live here now,” I say. “A trainee New Yorker, if there is such a thing.”
“Maybe you can convince Gio to add some new flavors to our range.” She shoots him the side-eye as she speaks.
His expression stiffens and I see his shutters bang down, just as they did in the bookstore on Valentine’s Day.
“What does our logo say?”
Sophia sighs. “Vanilla forever. I know all of that, but what if we never find it, Gio? What then? If we diversify now, we protect ourselves for the future.”
His expression is unmoved. “We’ll find the recipe.”
“And if we don’t?”
“We have time. We will.”
They both look at me, and I hesitate to say anything because this is clearly a well-trodden argument.
“The others agree with me.” Sophia folds her arms across her chest as she speaks, her expression every bit as obstinate as Gio’s. I get the feeling sparks regularly fly between these two.
“Maria too?” he says.
Sophia doesn’t reply. I’m guessing Santo’s wife is of the same opinion as Gio.
“Exactly,” he said. “Case closed.”
“Good luck working with him.” Sophia is speaking to me this time. “He’s a massive pain in the ass.”
He ignores the dig and looks at me. “Let’s go to the kitchens where we can hear ourselves think.”
“I’ve made a list of new flavor ideas, whenever you’re ready,” Sophia says, testy.
Gio doesn’t bite, just turns away.
“This way,” he says.
Sophia chucks me a grin behind his back, her corkscrew dark curls bouncing around her face. I can’t help but like Gio’s spiky little sister. If the other three are anything like her, Belotti family parties must be a riot.
* * *
—
THE GELATERIA KITCHENS ARE cavernous, much bigger than the shopfront would have you believe, a curious mix of traditional and modern. Impressive stainless-steel industrial gelato machines line one wall—Gio runs me through how ingredients load into the top to heat and pasteurize and then pass down into the chilled bottom cylinder where they’re churned with air to create gelato. It’s a macro version of my micro process, super-slick and modern, which I somehow hadn’t expected to find here.
“This is Santo’s favorite,” Gio says, leading me over to a much older machine, all ivory enamel curves and polished chrome. “He insists he can taste the difference between gelato made in this from that in the newer machines.”
“Do you really think he can?” I say.
He places an affectionate hand on the side of the old machine. “I wouldn’t bet against him,” he says.
He leads me down to the far end of the kitchen, which, similarly to the store out front, looks untouched by time. A chunky, oblong mahogany workbench dominates the space backed by bespoke cupboards and open shelving. Two long rows of square drawers with pull stops and brass nameplates sit beneath the cupboards, all hand-labeled. The overall effect is of an upscale apothecary, a place where mixologist magic happens. Or gelato magic, as it is here. I’m enchanted.
“This place speaks right to my chef’s soul.” I breathe, running my fingers over the smooth, well-worn workbench. How many generations of gelato makers have stood here, men and women, all working to recreate the same secret recipe? Seeing the history back here has helped me understand why Gio was so stubborn with Sophia earlier. The family have carved out a niche for themselves, they have a reputation to uphold.
“Santo and Maria had their first date right here,” he says, smoothing a hand over the end of the worktable. “Pizza from across the street and gelato for dessert. They do it again every year on their wedding anniversary.” He places both palms flat on the table, his arms braced as he sighs. “It kills him that he can’t remember the date now.”
I half smile, touched by the simple romance of the story.
“Tell me about the gelato,” I say. “Tell me what makes it special.”
“What makes it special?” He half huffs, half smiles, a faraway look gathering in his eyes. “So many things make it special. The taste, of course, but it’s more than that. It’s the connection, the memories, the way taste can trigger emotion.”
His face comes alive as he speaks, and he expresses himself with his hands and his body as much as his words. He turns to open one of the drawers on the back wall, returning to the table with a handful of papers: letters and cards.
“See?” he says, fanning them out. “These are from customers. Thank you notes from people who’ve been back year in, year out on vacation, people who came here as kids and now bring their own children, like a rite of passage. This one is from a family who asked us to serve gelato at their father’s funeral because it was the only thing he could eat in his final weeks.”
We look through them, all of them really saying the same thing—thank you.
“It’s not just gelato,” he says, resolute. Stoic.
“I can see that,” I say, gathering the papers carefully back into a pile. I understand more than I can possibly say—I could have written one of those letters myself.
“I owe Santo everything.” He lays his hand on his chest. “He took me in as his own when I was five years old. Maria did too, even though she was five months pregnant with Francesca at the time. I’ve grown up behind the counter out there. I belong here.” He picks up the letters and puts them back in the drawer. “My daughter belongs here.”
I take a step back, surprised. “You have a daughter?”
“Bella.” His expression changes when he says her name. Pride mingled with raw parental fear. “Fifteen going on twenty-five and thinks she knows everything there is to know about the world.”
“Scary stuff,” I say, mentally doing the maths. Bella can only have been eight or nine when her mother died, unfathomably young. I was thirty-one when my mother died and still wholly unprepared for the utter desolation. But then I was left alone in the world; at least Gio’s daughter had the warmth of the Belotti clan to close ranks around her. Maybe things would have been different for me if I’d had people to lean on.
“Okay,” I say, moving things carefully along. “So tell me what you know about the recipe.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, palms pressed together. “Honestly? Beyond the basics, not much. Santo took—takes his role as the current custodian seriously, he really believes in keeping our family story alive. It probably seems bizarre to other people, and after all this I’ll for sure be making some back-up plans when it’s my turn, but tradition and loyalty matter to us. You’d understand if you knew Santo, he’s spent his life behind this counter making sure we all get to benefit and prosper.”
“He sounds like a special person,” I say, doubling down on my commitment to never, ever tell these people that Santo shared their recipe with my mother. He’s the head of this family and the poster boy for Belotti integrity; my mother would haunt me for the rest of my days if I did anything to damage that. And, in truth, it’s not just about my mother anymore. I’ve only spent a small amount of time here, but I’m starting to feel a personal obligation too. This place and these people—I’ve never known what it’s like to have roots, never understood what it means to be part of a family. These people don’t just have roots. They’re a mighty oak—or perhaps an aged Italian olive tree is a more fitting description—roots embedded deep beneath the streets of Little Italy, proud and secure because they take the time to nourish it. The carefully preserved glass painted door. The secret recipe. The family gallery displayed on the walls. Their strength comes from their unity, and the small glimpse I’ve had behind the curtain is enough for me to already be enamored.