Macguire held his hands out for the dough, but it landed on the counter. “Oops.” He gave me a sheepish look. “You know how you see those pizza guys…” He scooped up the dough and began to press it into a jelly roll pan. “Never mind. How’s Marla? Has she recovered from that big argument? Did that guy explain what he was up to?”
Provencal Pizza
1 z ounce envelope active dry yeast
1 cup warm water
? teaspoon sugar
? teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons olive oil
2 ? to 3 cups all-purpose flour
? cup prepared pesto
12 ounces ripe tomatoes, thinly sliced and seed pockets removed
3 ? ounces chevre
4 ounces best-quality fresh mozzarella, grated
In a large mixing bowl, sprinkle the yeast over the warm water. Add the sugar, stir, and set aside 10 minutes, until the mixture is bubbly. Stir in the salt and olive oil. Beat in 2 ? cups of the flour, then add as much extra flour as needed to make a dough that is not too sticky to knead. Knead on a floured surface until the dough is smooth and satiny. (Or place the dough in the bowl of an electric mixer and knead with a dough hook until the dough cleans the sides of the bowl, (approximately 5 minutes.) Place the dough in an oiled bowl, turn to oil the top, cover with a kitchen towel, and let rise in a warm place until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour.
Preheat the oven to 425°. Brush a little olive oil over the bottom and sides of a 10-by 15-inch pan. Punch the dough down and press it into the bottom of the pan. Spread the pesto over the dough. Lay the tomato slices in even rows over the pesto. Dot the surface evenly with the chcvre, an sprinkle the mozzarella over the entire surface. Bake for 15 to 25 minutes, or until mozzarella is bubbly and dough has cooked through.
Serves 6.
“No, he’s doing that tomorrow morning.” I let water gush into my pasta pentola and set it on the stove. “I’m going down to the Prospect office with her and try to keep things sane.”
He stopped reading the pizza recipe and gave me a look. “The two of you are going down there together? Alone? Are you taking a referee’s uniform and a whistle? Can I come?” He was hoping for fisticuffs, apparently.
The phone rang again and I begged Macguire to : answer it so I could start on the salad. Instead of giving my customary greeting, however, my ever-helpful assistant barked, “Yeah, this is Goldilocks’ Catering! What do you want?”
Even across the room I could hear Mrs. Kirby-Jones’ hysterical voice over the wire. I gestured desperately for the phone.
Macguire cupped his palm over the receiver and opened his eyes wide. “I’m never going to learn how to handle people if you don’t let me handle them. Go make salad. If she hangs up on me, you can call her back and say some weird teenager just broke into your kitchen ? Excuse me? What?” he said into the phone.
I held my hands up in mock surrender and returned to the counter to tear radicchio to shreds. Just when you think you’re getting a handle on things in your personal life, your business life intrudes with a crisis. Or vice versa.
“Oh, my. Mm-hmm,” Macguire said with unsettling empathy. “No. How many people, again? What? Oh, yes, we’re completely mobile.” I felt my heart lurch. What was he promising? Macguire furrowed his brow and watched me rip into a head of arugula. “We can move around the African decorations in your dining room, that’s absolutely no problem at all. Oh, no, you don’t know who you’re talking to. This is Goldilocks’ Catering ?”
His blithe assurances were interrupted by more hysterical objections that threatened to rise to a shriek.
“What?” he demanded, cradling the phone under his ear and reaching for the pizza dough again. I cringed, envisioning another attempt at spinning it through the air. “Oh, pull~leeze! What did he say?” I waved the sauce spoon, trying desperately to get Macguire’s attention. But he was staring at my shelves of cookbooks. Knowing him, he wasn’t reading any of the tides. “Vegetarian burritos? For twenty people? In the next two hours?” He hesitated. “Oh, no. No way. We’re having green lasagne the way Guido used to make it, lady! I mean, uh, Mrs. Kirby- Jones.”
The voice on the telephone rose precipiously. . Please listen to me, Mrs… . er … ? Macguire faltered. He clutched his throat with his free hand, and stuck out his tongue. I’m being strangled by Mrs. Kirby-Jones! The shrill protests had changed to pleading. “Please,” he repeated. “Will you listen? I did the research myself I called Guido’s-on-the-Pike. I don’t care what your husband says he remembers… . You didn’t eat at Taco Tita’s. They even remember you at Guido’s. You were wearing that gorgeous pink dress with that wonderful corsage… . Nope, you were at Guido’s, not Taco Tita’s, that’s for sure. The whole staff gets teary-eyed every time they think of it. You were the most beautiful bride they’d ? ” I signaled violently. Macguire turned to me, finally. And winked.
Oh, Lord, I prayed, please get us out of this mess. “Yes, ma’am. Talked to them myself. Talked to Guido, as a matter of fact. Who, me? Who am I? Why, I’m Goldilocks’ researcher. Macguire Perkins. Yes, the same Perkins.” Macguire smiled and rolled his eyes. “Yes, my father is the headmaster of Elk Park Preparatory School. What, me? I’ve already graduated. Oh, Harvard. Next year.”
I pictured Macguire’s father in his large, airy office with his gilt-framed degrees and his large, airy ego. I didn’t want to imagine how he would react to this string of lies that was growing more fanciful by the minute.
But Macguire was all smiles. “Oh yes, we can be there early to set up. Are you going to wear pink again? Wonderful. Pink is definitely your color. Yes, your husband is wrong. There’s no way you ate at Taco Tita’s that day. But don’t make a big deal out of it,” Macguire advised solemnly, the world’s sagest marital counselor. “It is your anniversary.” He hung up.
“I don’t believe this.” I dotted the pesto-slathered pizza dough with the bright red tomato slices and creamy cubes of goat cheese. “What if she finds out Guido’s been dead all these years?”
“Hey,” said Macguire. He reached over to preheat the oven for the pizzas and then pulled out a kitchen chair. He missed the rungs and the chair fell on its side. “Oh, sorry, sorry… listen, everything’s going to be okay!”
“What if she learns that restaurant went out of business ten years ago?”
Macguire widened his eyes in mock astonishment. “Oh, Mrs. Kirby-Jones,” he shrilled in uncanny imitation of our client’s neurotic tones, “you must be thinking of the Guido’s on Connecticut Avenue!” He grinned. . “Y’see, I knew that junior-year trip to the nation’s capital would payoff some time. It sounds like’ I actually know something about Washington.”
I sprinkled mozzarella over the pizza. Give up, I thought. It seemed Macguire could be perceptive or deceptive, as the occasion demanded. Still, the kid did have a way of leasing a place in your heart. Aloud, I said mildly, “I don’t know why I ever thought you wouldn’t be able to handle Mrs. Kirby-Jones.”
“Yeah, most people think I’m pretty stupid if they meet me,” he agreed cheerfully. “Just barely graduated, no college. But if I talk to them over the phone, then they think I must be like my supereducated, golf-groupie father, the prep school headmaster ? “
“Macguire! I didn’t mean ? “
“Oh, it’s okay.” He set the chair upright and flopped into it. “Hey, listen. I felt real good doing that investigation into that ore for Marla. It was like a head trip ? I mean, there they are at this big financial party having a big, loud fight over something I’d researched! Man!” He hopped up to slide the pizzas into the oven. Then he crossed his arms, leaned against the oven, and gave me a look of triumph. “I finally found something I’m really good at. I’m a great investigator.” He paused. “So I’m thinking about going into law enforcement. Tell Tom Schulz I want to talk to him. I want to be a cop.”
“Oh, come on. I’m not sure this is something you want to consider seriously… .”
“Chill, Goldy! Who do you think would miss me if I got shot by a bad guy?”
“Macguire!” “I’m kidding, kidding.” He sat back down and stretched out his legs. His sneakers looked sopping wet. “It’s just that I don’t think I’ll ever go to like, some university. So I’m thinking of my future. I really do think I’d be good at cop work. Everybody figures I’m dumb, so they’d trust me and like, tell me stuff.”
I finished tearing up the lettuce and stirred the Bolonese again, then tasted it. The dark, spicy sauce
