What would she make of my doing this, going to this gelateria that she seems to have intentionally kept me unaware of? Why would one of the family members give her their recipe? I’ve no intention of revealing her secret, of course, but I yearn to understand how the pieces of her life then intersect with my life now, to press a conch shell to my ear and catch the echo of her across time.
Belotti’s looks much the same as it did last night: no queue, no sign of being open. I step inside the sheltered doorway and study the freehand glass painting up close, noticing how fresh the colors are, how carefully cared for it is for an aged piece of art. I know from looking at the gelateria’s website that they’ve embraced the design as a central part of their unique business fingerprint, recreating it on their aprons, menus, and cups. I’m lost in thought as I examine it, so much so that I don’t notice the movement inside until the door opens, making me jump.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” the guy says as I step sharply back, startled.
I summon a smile. “It was my own fault, standing too close to the door. I was just looking at the artwork.”
He glances at it too, and then at me. For a moment I get the same déjà-vu feeling as when I saw the door, as if I know him already. Which is crazy, of course, because I don’t, and he doesn’t look especially like the guy in my mother’s photo, so that can’t be it either.
“Are you open yet?” I glance past him into the empty shop.
“Not exactly,” he says. “I’m just firing up the coffee machine, but there’s no gelato.”
I could leave now—the gelato is why I came, after all, but coffee and a chance to step inside is better than leaving altogether if I want to know what this place was to my mother.
“Coffee sounds good,” I say, and he lifts his shoulders and moves aside to let me pass.
“You’re early for the festival,” he says, heading behind the counter.
“Oh, I know. I was just here yesterday, actually.”
He gestures for me to take one of the oxblood leather bar seats at the counter as he turns his back to kickstart the coffee machine into life. I watch him fill the bean hopper, observing the easy confidence of his moves as he sets two cups on the counter and adds milk to the foamer. I’m a coffee junkie, just the sounds and smells are enough to relax my shoulders from around my ears. I unwind my scarf and place it on the swivel chair beside mine, taking in the old-school mahogany and brass atmosphere of the place and the welcome glow of the multicolored Tiffany-style glass lampshades. There’s a small upright piano in the far corner and family photographs fill the walls, generations of Belotti men and women standing behind this same counter. The place has barely changed over the years, which is, of course, all part of its charm. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, and all that.
“So what brings you back again so soon?”
I pause as he places a simple white cup and saucer in front of me along with a jug of hot foamed milk and a bowl of sugar cubes. His own coffee is black; I appreciate that he’s given me the option. I stir in a little milk, using the distraction to decide how to answer the question.
“Coffee at Belotti’s?” I say after a beat, throwing in a smile and feeling stupid, but it’s enough of an answer to suffice.
“About all we’re good for at the moment,” he says, sighing into his coffee cup.
I look at him properly then and notice the dark circles beneath his eyes, the furrow between his eyebrows. Something is clearly troubling him.
“Will you be open later, with your gelato? I might call back. My friend said I really need to try it.”
He skims his gaze to the ceiling as he shakes his head. “Honestly? Probably not.”
Disappointment pushes through me, and I let the thoughts spinning inside my head come out of my mouth. “Is everything okay? I wouldn’t normally ask a stranger that, but you look kind of wiped out.”
He drums his index finger on the counter, as if he’s trying to decide how to respond. “Isn’t it my job to ask if the customer is okay and to offer to listen to your problems?”
“I think that’s mostly bartenders, and it’s too early for alcohol, even by my standards,” I say. “Besides, you look more in need of a listening ear than I do right now.”
He nods slowly, turning his gaze out toward the street, and I wonder if I’ve overstepped the mark. I sip my coffee, resisting the urge to jump in with both feet and apologize my question away.
“We can’t make our gelato right now,” he says, still not looking at me. “My papa had a stroke eight days ago. He’s in the ICU and no one else knows the recipe.”
I go still, my cup halfway to my mouth. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Is he going to be okay?”
His expression is carefully controlled. “We think so, but he’s lost some parts of his memory. Not everything, like in the movies—he still knows he’s Santo Belotti and who we all are, but some other things are gone, for now at least. The date he married Maria, the name of his grandparents’ hometown back in Italy. Our gelato recipe.”
“Gosh, that’s tough,” I manage, quietly reeling at the sound of Santo’s name—the name on my mother’s photo. “Is he likely to remember everything again in time?”
“No one can really say for sure.” He looks down at the glass counter, gesturing at the empty metal gelato containers below. “My whole life this counter has been full. This place has been full, people even waiting in a line outside to get in.”
He raises his eyes to mine, dark and troubled.
“Is there no one else who knows the recipe?” I ask, remembering that their website mentioned two Belotti family members always know the recipe at any one time. For this precise reason, I guess.
A noise leaves him, somewhere between a huff and a bitter laugh. “Technically, yes. My father thinks he has it written down somewhere, but he can’t seem to find it.”
I frown, thrown by what he’s said. “Sorry, I thought you said Santo was your father?” I say, trying to keep the story straight in my head.
“He’s actually my uncle, but I call him Papa. He raised me as one of his own because my father was never around when I was a kid.” He shrugs. “He still isn’t. He’s in Australia now, and it was Japan before that. On to Europe in a few weeks if I remember right. He’s a musician, travels light—so light he can’t keep track of a damn recipe, apparently. I guess it’s easy to be careless when you’re never the one left behind to deal with the fallout.”
“Oh,” I say, a totally inadequate response. He speaks of Santo with great affection, and of his actual father with deep exasperation. I understand that feeling, because Charlie Raven never made any effort to be a father to me. “That’s a bit crap.”
“You can say that again,” he says, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Over a hundred years in business, and the first time I’m left in charge I can’t do a thing to help keep us from going under.”
It’s my turn to study my coffee, conflicted. It dawns on me that I, unlike the man standing in front of me, can help here. But in doing so, I’d be opening up a whole other can of worms. Santo, the man from the photograph, is still here, but he’s married to someone called Maria. So then why did he share his family’s precious secret with my mother all those years ago? Family loyalty and pride is engrained in every inch of this place, they’ve traded on this famously secret recipe for over a century. What would it do to them if they knew of his indiscretion?