anger down from the screaming fit he had treated her to when she originally pitched the idea to him after the recording session that morning. But his core position hadn’t changed one iota, and the sooner she realised this the better. He had no interest in a negotiated solution to Ugo’s scandalous provocation. What he wanted was the arsehole’s arse on a plate, and Delia’s job, as his highly-paid gofer, was to jiggle her brisket cutely under his nose and enquire sweetly if he wanted fries with that, not tell him that he should have ordered something else.
The computer emitted a soft gong-like sound, indicating the arrival of an email. Sensing his mood starting to darken again, Rinaldi quickly snorted another line. Cooking might be problematic for him, but when it came to coking he was a wizard. He crossed the minimalistically furnished expanses of the concrete coffer-dam that had been constructed amid the foundations of the apartment block and glared at the screen.
I can’t take your refusal as absolute, Romano, there’s just too much at stake. This was potentially a great crisis. I’ve turned it into an equally great opportunity. I completely understand your justifiable feelings of hurt, but the fact remains that you’d be a fool not to grab this chance of both clearing your name and garnering positive publicity for the show, the products and the Lo Chef brand name. FWIW, the whole team is in agreement on this.
Rinaldi sat down at the keyboard and fired off his reply.
I don’t do live.
The little bitch was obviously handling this in real time-her own job was on the line, of course, although so far she hadn’t mentioned this-because she came right back at him.
The jury will be rigged. I explained all this to you when we met. I’ve already got five judges signed up and am working on the rest. You will also be informed of the list of ingredients in advance-in fact we can more or less dictate them-and will be intensively coached by Righi as usual. By the time the show goes on stage even you will be able to whip up an acceptable pasta dish within the time limit. You have everything to gain and nothing to lose. For God’s sake think about it.
He let the coke reply to this one.
There’s nothing to think about. Where I grew up, down in the streets, among people who had nothing but their pride, we had a saying. ‘If you lose your money, nothing is lost. If you lose your health, much is lost. If you lose your honour, all is lost.’ This arrogant bastard has impugned my honour. He shall pay for that.
Romano clicked this off and then fiddled around until he had programmed the stress-reducing ‘Pure White Noise’ audio file. Barely had the unvarying swishing pervaded the room than the computer gonged again. Rinaldi was tempted to ignore it, but he knew that this issue had to be resolved, and far better by email than in person.
Fine, go right ahead. FYI, our legal consultant has advised us that our chances of winning a court case are at best fifty-fifty. Technically speaking, Ugo did not libel you. His comments were simply a ‘hypothetical illustrative example’ designed to sex up one of his the-way-we-live-now pieces. But if you sue, he will hire the very best lawyers in the country and quite possibly a few muckraking hacks to dig around and see what they can come up with. Disgruntled former employees, etc. Remember little Placida, who turned out not to be? It could get really nasty. At best we’ll win a ‘moral victory’ that no one will care about, which will cost a fortune in fees and still leave everyone wondering whether you can actually cook or not. But once you have demonstrated your skills and superiority live on TV at the Bologna food fair-and don’t forget that the contest is sewn up in your favour whatever happens in the kitchen-then the prospects for your future career are assured, not just here in Italy but world-wide. Professor Ugo may be an arrogant bastard, but he is also a huge international personality. Out-takes from this event are going to be shown on hundreds of foreign channels, maybe thousands. You know those little feel-good stories they stick in at the end of the news after the politics and wars and atrocities? ‘And now, on a lighter note…’ You’re going to own that slot, Romano. I personally guarantee you that if you accept the opportunity that I’ve set up then by the end of the year Lo Chef Che Canta e Incanta will be global, and all the spin-off branded products along with it. We’re talking potentially millions. And one more thing, for what it may be worth. If you pigheadedly insist on going to court despite all the above, consider me fired.
Feeling his resolution beginning to weaken, Rinaldi sidled over to the modest kitchenette, where he occasionally warmed up a cup of instant soup or burnt a defrosted slice of bread under the grill, and snapped open a bottle of Coke. He well remembered the days before his current success, when he had eked out an exiguous livelihood voicing jingles for advertisements to be aired on local radio stations. It had been a studio director for one of these who had come up with the original idea for the Lo Chef show, and originally it had been intended as little more than a joke. But the director had contacts at various television production companies, and after a few embellishments, such as the singing, had been added to the pitch, one of these had agreed to make a pilot at a discounted fee refundable if they could find a broadcaster willing to take it on.
They had, and the ratings had been good enough for the TV station to come back for a mini-series of six episodes. Ratings had climbed by leaps and bounds with each screening-all word of mouth-and Rinaldi got a contract to do a full series for the rest of the year. When that expired, he was in a position to negotiate a very much more lucrative contract with the nation’s most-watched channel, plus a prime-time slot right after the smash hit Filthy Rich Stupid Sluts reality show. At first the friend involved had run the production company, but the momentum of the product had soon exhausted his meagre skills and Romano Rinaldi had reluctantly been forced to dispense with his services.
Like all ideas of genius, this one was basically very simple. Italian cooking was dying. Not at the restaurant level, but in the home. Men had never dreamt of learning how to cook, and nowadays most women were too tired and preoccupied to do so. In any case, they wouldn’t know how. The oral tradition that had passed down recipes and techniques from mother to daughter for countless centuries had virtually died out, along with the extended family and stay-at-home wives.
Hence Lo Chef’s appeal. His warm, unthreatening, campily flirty screen persona tapped deeply into his viewership’s culinarily challenged subconscious, allaying its anxieties and sense of inadequacy while validating its dream and aspirations. The popularity of his show was not based on educating the younger generation in the basics of putting food on the table, although the scriptwriters were constantly reminded that their target audience included people who thought that milk came fresh from the cow at 5°C, and even those who had never realised that cows were involved at all. But Lo Chef’s viewers didn’t want instruction, they wanted glamour, a few ‘authentic’ tips from the top, and above all a bit of fun.
This was where the singing came in. Sections of the recipe, directions, ingredients, preparation methods all floated out in Rinaldi’s very serviceable light tenor-another link to his childhood, and possibly even his parentage-to the melodies of famous operas and popular songs. Everyone relaxed and smiled as the chubby, lovable TV personality whipped up another stunning, authentic dish ‘from our incomparable and timeless gastronomic tradition’, accompanied by two scantily clad, inanely grinning bimbettes with pneumatic boobs who got the male audience on board while giving the average housewife the satisfaction of jeering at their utter incompetence, for which they were always being indulgently scolded by the star, his eyes raised to heaven.
It had been a dynamite concept, and one he had managed carefully. By now he was less interested in direct revenue from the TV station than in exposure for the ever-expanding line of products marketed under the Lo Chef Che Canta e Incanta trademark. This was the sweetest aspect of the whole enterprise, since it required no effort on Rinaldi’s part whatsoever. Even initially, all he had had to do was to find a reasonably good product available at a knockdown wholesale price, then contact the producer and make a bid for exclusive retail rights. Now, of course, the producers contacted him. He was deluged with offers. Then it was just a matter of hiring some marketing hack to write a lyrical blurb to print on the label beneath a cheery image of the star in his white coat and chef’s hat, his hand held out and mouth open as he reached for a high C, and ship it out to the supermarkets.
He had started with the Coop chain that controlled most mass food outlets in central Italy, then moved on to Conad and the other national chains. He knew just how women felt as they trudged up and down the aisles in those smelly, crowded food marts. They longed for the personal contact and preferential treatment they got at the small, old-fashioned shops, but doing the rounds of all those was just too much of a bother after a hard day at work. The supermarkets were quick, convenient and cheap, but they felt chilly and impersonal. So when Signora Tizia spotted
