The Queen of Minor Disasters by Antonietta Mariottini Read Free Book Online Page B

that our tables are all booked up.
    “I’m sorry sir, I don’t have
7:00 available. My only available times are 5:00, 5:30, or 9:15.”
    “What about 7:30?” he asks.
     Obviously he’s not paying
attention.
    “I’m sorry sir, I don’t have
that either,” I try to be peppy for the camera.
    “Listen,” he says frankly.
“It’s my wife’s birthday and I forgot to make a reservation. Is there any way
you can squeeze us in?”
    Now I just feel bad. His
wife’s birthday. How could he have forgotten? Drew would never forget. For a
minute I’m flustered, remembering the three birthdays I spent with Drew.
     “Hello?” the man on the phone
says.
    Oh right.
    “I’m really sorry.” I sigh.
“If you want, I can take your name for the waiting list. If we get any
cancellations, I’ll give you a call.”
    He quickly gives his name and
cell number then hangs up without saying goodbye.
    It’s not my fault he forgot to make a reservation.
    “I hate people,” I mumble to
myself as the front door opens. Oh crap. I’ll have to edit that out.
    My parents arrive with boxes
of food from La Cucina. They’ve decided to close on weekends for the summer.
The restaurant is in my hometown, which is just a little speck on the map
outside Philadelphia and the town pretty much dies from June to September so it
makes sense for them to close.
    I look at the boxes my mom and
dad are carrying and assume Lorenzo doesn’t know about the food they’re
bringing in. He’s not going to be
happy about it. I turn off the camera and stash it in the hostess stand before
they start asking questions.
    “Stella!” my dad beams when he
sees me, even though I was just home two days ago. I walk over to hug them and
take a box out of my mom’s hands.
    “What’d you bring?”
    “Don’t even ask,” my dad
whispers rolling his eyes. My mom shoots him a look.
    “I made baked rigatoni,” she
says. “We can use it for a special or eat it ourselves, if Lorenzo doesn’t want
to serve it.”
    They move past me and into the
kitchen. I see that they’ve also brought two bags of spring mix, seven
zucchini, two oranges, and a gallon of milk.
    I follow them into the
kitchen.
    “What the hell, Mom?” Lorenzo
shrieks when he sees the food. “I told you not to bring anything down.”
    “I had these things left
over,” she says, her voice getting loud. “What was I supposed to do? Let it
spoil?”
    We all know the baked rigatoni
was not leftover. My mom is
always making things purposely to bring down. It drives Lorenzo crazy.
    Lorenzo takes the box out of
my hands and looks through it. This could get ugly.
    “Mom, I don’t even use zucchini,” he says, hovering over the
boxes. “And I have three bags of my own spring mix. What am I supposed to do
with all this salad?”
    “You’ll figure it out,” she
says, detonating the bomb. “You’re the chef.”
    I leave the kitchen and move
towards the waiters’ station where they have all convened. “Go a little heavy
on the salads tonight guys,” I say, trying to solve the produce issue before
walking back to my podium. Damn I wish that was on film.
    My parents emerge from the
other kitchen door. “We’re not staying to eat here tonight,” my mom says. My
dad is holding the baked rigatoni pan in his hands. “I’ll be cooking dinner at
home.” She’s flustered and red in the face.
    My dad shrugs.
    Lorenzo must have won.
    “Cancel our spot, and if Pietro
and Gina come here, just send them home,” my mom says.
    They leave before I can
protest. I erase their reservation from the book, and notice that a 7:00 spot
is now open. I look at the man’s name on my waiting list but decide not to call
him back.
     Rudeness gets you nowhere.
Besides, I know I’ll fill the spot with walk-ins.
    The rest of the night goes off
without a hitch, and to be honest, it was pretty boring. I mean, there was
nothing to film. Not an angry customer, or a waiter flub. The only slightly eventful
thing was Mr.