Roast Mortem

“I, uh...” The man’s aura was so hypnotic I had a hard time finding my tongue. Madame really wasn’t kidding about this guy’s mojo. “Yes, I have a daughter.” I finally replied. “Her name is Joy, and she’s — ”

“A chef! That’s right! Blanche told me this morning in our phone call. She is at work in Paris.”

“Not a chef yet. Just a line cook. Of course, in my mind she’s still twelve years old, inventing cake-mix biscotti in our New Jersey kitchen.”

Enzo’s eyes smiled. “Where does the time go, eh?” Then he looked away in what appeared to be a pointedly unhappy frown for his daughter.

“Speaking of time,” Lucia interrupted. “It’s Thursday, and your bocce game is starting very soon.” She glared at us. “They’re expecting my father at the park.”

Enzo waved his hand. “Luigi and Thomas can wait.”

“But what about Mrs. Quadrelli.” Lucia’s gaze stabbed Madame on that one. “You know she’ll be disappointed if you’re late.”

Enzo folded his arms. “Rita Quadrelli will find some other man’s ear to talk off until I get there.”

“We always close early on Thursday, just so you can play your weekly game. I don’t see why you should let their lateness change your plans.”

“That’s no way to treat guests!” Enzo replied in Italian. “Show some respect — ”

A hesitant knock interrupted. “Yo, Lucy! You in there? I’m double-parked.”

A wiry, gum-chewing male about ten years Lucia’s junior emerged from the shadows of the sidewalk. His cuffed gabardine slacks, two-toned bowling shirt, and black-and-brown saddle shoes looked like a tribute to the Happy Days wardrobe department. Platinum pompadour cocked, he moved to join us.

“Sorry, Glenn,” Lucia folded her arms. “I was going to meet you outside, but these people came.”

Madame shot me a glance.

There’s an old Italian saying: “With a contented stomach, your heart is forgiving; with an empty stomach, you forgive nothing.” Madame had to be thinking the same thing I was: Lucia Testa is in sore need of a decent meal.

Glenn didn’t answer his girlfriend. Instead, he put on a warm smile and approached her father, extending a sinewy arm. “Mr. T, how you doin’ tonight, sir?”

Enzo shook the man’s hand and then gestured toward me and Madame. “This is Glenn Duffy, Lucia’s boyfriend — ”

“Fiancé, Papa, Lucia corrected.

“Yes, yes,” Enzo said, but under his breath I heard him mutter. “Who ever heard of an engagement with no ring?”

To this, Glenn made no reply — maybe he hadn’t heard Enzo’s low remark or maybe he was smart enough to pretend he hadn’t. Either way, he turned his full attention to greeting us. As he happily chewed his gum, dimples appeared in his lean cheeks. A bleach-blond Elvis.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything here,” Glenn said.

“You are always welcome,” Enzo replied. “How about an espresso?”

“Sure.” Glenn shrugged, taking out his gum. “Maybe a few cookies, too?” He smiled a little sheepishly, “I really liked those Italian ones — ”

Enzo snorted. “They’re all Italian.”

Lucia tapped her watch. “No coffee tonight, Glenn! We have to go.”

“Why?” he asked. “What’s the hurry?”

“You said it yourself. You’re double-parked! You didn’t work for a solid year to restore that car of yours just so some jerk can sideswipe you!”

Glenn put the gum back in his mouth. “The New Jersey Custom Car Show’s this weekend,” he informed us, jerking his thumb toward the door. “I’m showing my ’68 Mustang.”

Madame and I moved to the caffè’s picture window. The restored coup sported a chassis that gleamed redder than strawberries in a newly glazed tart. The convertible top and leather interior were whiter than castor sugar. Racing stripes ran like Christmas ribbons from bumper to fender, a retro bonnet scoop topped the hood, and the chrome grill was so highly polished it could have been cut from a mirror.

Note to self: Do not, under any circumstances, let Lucia Testa see my car!

As Madame and I gushed compliments to Glenn, Enzo turned to his daughter and spoke in Italian. “What’s one espresso? What would your mama say about your rude behavior?”

“Well, I don’t want you to be rude to Mrs. Quadrelli,” Lucia replied in English.

“Basta, child! Blanche and Clare do not have all night to sit here with me! We will drink our coffee, and I will be on the bocce court in less than an hour. Okay? Happy?”

“Okay! That’s all I wanted to hear!” Lucia finally looked relieved. “I’ll see you on Sunday, Papa. C’mon, Glenn. Don’t forget my bag.” She pointed to a Pullman in the corner as her gilded gladiators clicked toward the front door.

“Sorry, Mr. T,” Glenn shrugged again, grabbed the Pullman’s handle. “Maybe next time. Nice to meet you, ladies.”

A moment later the door shut, and we heard Lucia struggling to throw the old lock. Silence hovered. Finally, Madame cleared her throat.

“Mr. Duffy seems like a nice young man...”

Enzo let out a breath. “He’s nice enough, sì. And he has a good job working on cars. That is how he met my daughter. Car trouble. Mr. Fix-it comes to the rescue, but Lucia, she is pushing too hard...”

He shook his head with that exasperated parent shake (one I knew oh so well). “For years, she had offers to marry — plenty. None of them were good enough. Now she is finally feeling the hands of life’s clock spinning faster. But Glenn is still a boy. Time passes slower for the young. He is in no hurry. That’s why there is no ring!”

Madame and I exchanged glances. What do you say to that?

“Well,” Madame finally replied, “Lucia wasn’t wrong about our tardiness. If you have someplace else to go, perhaps we can reschedule — ”

“Nonsense! Sit down!”

We did, taking seats at one of the marble-topped caffè tables.

“I have no intention of playing bocce tonight,” he said as he slipped behind the counter and prepared our espressos. “I fibbed to my daughter to send her on her way. Meeting up with that donna pazzesca, Mrs. Quadrelli? That’s Lucia’s idea, not mine.”

Donna pazzesca? My eyebrows rose. Crazy woman? I mouthed to Madame.

“She’s trying to fix you up?” Madame asked, obviously curious.

“I take her to dinner a few times. Nothing special. A movie once or twice. Now the woman stalks me at my game every Thursday, and how she talks my ear off! Madonna mia!”

Madame sent me an amused look.

“Knows all the gossip in the neighborhood, that one! And she’s always complaining — the daughter-in-law, the store clerk, the upstairs neighbor, eh! Enough already! I told her last week, as clear as I could, that my business was taking too much of my time so she should leave me alone.”

Enzo crossed the room with a small tray, set the espressos in front of us. “I don’t want to hear complaining tonight.” He lifted his demitasse and made a toast. “Tonight I am visiting with my ravishing Blanche and her Clare...”

Two hours later, Enzo and Madame were reliving their past via an illustrated narrative of old photo albums. They’d continued toasting, too, only now they’d moved on to grappa.

“It’s so quiet down here,” Madame declared (because we’d also moved on to the caffè’s basement).