Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

“Ca’ d’Oro, on Mott Street,” I answer before Bret even asks. When we were a couple, our communication resembled a good game of Jeopardy! , and to be honest, sometimes I miss that connection.

“I’ve heard of it. It’s supposed to be very good,” Bret says agreeably.

It’s nice to know my old boyfriend isn’t one bit jealous of my new one. Though maybe I wish he were. Just a little. “I highly recommend the risotto.”

Bret sits down and opens his briefcase. He pulls out a file marked ANGELINI SHOES. “I wanted to run something by you. Have you ladies had a chance to discuss expanding your brand?”

“Valentine mentioned a couple of things-” Gram begins.

“Gram, your hair is different. What did you do?”

“It’s a new cut.”

“And a dip in Mother Dye,” June laughs. “And I know, because I dip myself.”

“Well, you look great, Gram,” Bret says. I’m impressed with Bret’s ability to soften up a resistant client. He must kill at the hedge fund. “June, is it all right with you if we discuss business?”

“Pretend I’m not even here.”

“Valentine was telling me about the concept of branding. Now, you know, we’ve been in business for over a hundred years, so our brand is known and tested. It is what it is. Here’s what I don’t understand.” Gram smooths her new bangs off to the side. “We make wedding shoes from our historical designs. Our catalog, if you will. We make them by hand. We can’t make them any faster. How would we serve a larger clientele than we already have?”

“Valentine?” Bret tosses me the question.

“We wouldn’t, Gram. Not with our core designs. We couldn’t. No, we’d have to design a new shoe, one that could be mass-produced in a factory. We would introduce a more affordable, secondary line.”

“Cheaper shoes?”

“In price, yes, but not in quality.”

“I’ll be honest. I don’t know how to do that,” Gram says.

“Investors like to know that the product they finance has the potential for wide distribution, therefore a higher profit margin. The way you do that is to come up with something that’s both fashionable and affordable and doable for the designer and manufacturer,” Bret says and hands Gram a report that says: BRANDING, GROWTH, AND PROFIT FOR THE SMALL BUSINESS. “Now, if you follow my logic, I think we can put a fund together that will buy you the time and materials to develop the business in new directions.”

“That makes sense,” I say encouragingly, but when I look at Gram, she seems unconvinced.

“So, investors are looking for you, a venerable institution, with quality brand identification, to come up with something that can be mass-produced.” Bret continues, “Here’s the beauty. It doesn’t have to be a wedding shoe.”

“I see.” Gram looks at me.

“I’m thinking about creating something new that is part of our brand, but doesn’t forsake the custom work in the shop,” I explain. “This would be an outside product, created here, developed here, but manufactured elsewhere.”

“China?” Gram asks.

“Probably. Or Spain. Or Brazil. Indonesia. Maybe Italy,” I tell her.

“Are there any American companies that factory-make shoes?”

“A few.”

“Could we use one of those?”

“Gram, I’m checking into that now.” I don’t want this conversation to get stuck in the Made in America argument Gram has with anyone who will listen. I have to keep her mind on the bigger picture, and our operation.

“Let’s not worry about that aspect of production right now,” Bret says, backing me up. “Let’s focus on the work ahead.”

“Gram, I have to create this shoe first. I’m thinking a casual shoe, but hip. And maybe even accessories. Maybe we’ll eventually expand to include those.”

“Oh, God, no. Not belts!” June interrupts. “I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to be the hear no evil monkey over here, but sometimes, a girl has to speak up. We tried accessories. What a disaster. Mike made belts and sold them to Saks, and they were returned, remember?”

Gram nods.

“He used a soft leather, a gorgeous calfskin that stretched like Bazooka gum after a couple of wearings. The customers were peeved and Saks was outraged. Every belt was returned.” June shakes her head. “Every single one.”

“And Mike said ‘never again.’ He said we have to stick to what we know.”

“Well, Gram, we don’t have that luxury. We have to take a chance, because if we don’t, if we don’t come up with something that can revitalize our business and take it to the next level, we won’t be here in a year.”

“Okay, then,” Bret says, giving me the file. “You two need to talk, and I’m going to tell my guys that you are putting together a portfolio of ideas for them.”

“You can also tell them we’re going to Italy to bring them the latest innovative materials applied to classic design,” I tell him.

“Val, I never thought I’d say this, but you sound like a businessman.”

“I believe in this company.”

“That comes through.” Bret gives Gram a kiss on the cheek, then June, then me. “Keep it up. You know what you’re doing.” Bret leaves the files with us and goes.

“He really believes in you,” June says.

“He knew me when…,” I tell her. “There’s something to be said for that.”

Ca’ d’Oro is closed on Monday nights, so for Roman and me, it’s date night. Roman usually comes over to Perry Street and I cook, or I go over to his place and he does. Tonight, though, he has invited my family to the restaurant for dinner, in reciprocation for Christmas, and as penance for missing Gram’s eightieth birthday at the Carlyle. This couldn’t be a more perfect setup, because I want my family to get to know him on his own turf. Ca’ d’Oro is Roman’s masterpiece; it says who he is, shows the scope of his culinary talents, and demonstrates that he’s a real player in the restaurant world of Manhattan.

When I finished work at the shop, I came over, set the long table in the dining room, put out candles and a low vase of greens and violets for a centerpiece. Now, I’m in the kitchen acting as Roman’s sous-chef. Preparing food is a respite from making shoes, mostly because I can sample the recipes as he makes them.

“So, he’s your type?” Roman places a thin sheet of pasta dough over the ravioli tray.

I follow him, filling the delicate pockets with a dab of Roman’s signature filling, a creamy whip of sweet potatoes mixed with slivers of truffle, aged parmesan, and herbs. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask me about Bret.”

“He’s a businessman in a suit and tie. Successful?”

“Very.”

“You’re still friends, so it must not have been an ugly breakup.”

“It was a little ugly, but we were friends before, so why not stay friends after?”

“What happened?”

“A career on Wall Street and shoemaking don’t complement each other. I can look back on it and appreciate it for what it was. What worked about us was our backgrounds. One of each.”

“One of each?” Roman places another sheet of pasta dough over the wells of filling. Then he places the cutting press over the dough, and punches out twelve regulation-size ravioli onto the flour-dusted butcher block. He picks the squares up one at a time and lines them up on a wooden tray, and sprinkles them with yellow cornmeal. “Explain that to me.”

“You should never have two of the same thing in a relationship. Mix it up. Irish-Fitzpatrick, and Italian-me. Nice. Put a southerner with a northerner. Good. A Jew with a Catholic, evens out the guilt and shame nicely. A Protestant with a Catholic? Slight stretch. My parents encouraged us to marry our own kind, but too much of the same thing breeds drama.”