Adriana Trigiani - Very Valentine

The kitchen fills with the scent of hot butter. Roman quickly turns and lifts the pan off the stove, throwing in garlic and herbs, swishing them around in the butter, creating a smooth mixture. “Okay, I’m gonna let this set. First up: caviar. From the Black Sea.”

He snaps open a container and places a wafer-thin pizzelle, which looks like a flat, circular waffle, on a plate. “You know the pizzelle cookies from when we were kids? This is my version. Instead of sugar, I make these with lemon zest and fresh pepper.” He opens the tin of caviar and scoops a spoonful onto the pizzelle. Roman adds a dab of crème fraîche on top of the Black Sea beads and gives it to me.

I take a bite. The combination of the tart lemon in the pizzelle, the rich caviar, and the rush of sweet cream melts in my mouth.

“Not bad, right?”

“It’s heavenly.”

I watch as Roman throws medallions of beef into the large skillet with the olive oil. He chops sweet onions and mushrooms onto the meat, dousing it in splashes of the red wine from the bottle we are drinking. Slowly, he adds cream to the pan, and the sauce turns from golden brown to a pale burgundy.

“I spent a few months on Capri in the kitchen of the Quisisana. Best thing I ever did. They have an open oven outside, behind the kitchen. In the morning, we’d build the fire with old driftwood from the beach and then we’d keep it going all day, slow-roasting tomatoes for sauce, root vegetables for side dishes, you name it. I learned the value of taking time when cooking. I roasted tomatoes down to their essence, the skins turning into silky ribbons, while the pulp turns rich and hearty in the heat. You don’t even have to make a sauce out of them, just throw them on pasta, they’re that sweet.”

In the small pan, where the herbs are glazed in butter, Roman empties a container of rice, loaded with olives, capers, tomatoes, and herbs. As steam rises off the rice, and the steak sizzles, he sets the counter for dinner.

Roman has the most beautiful hands (people who work with their hands usually do), long fingers that move with grace, artfully and deliberately. It’s mesmerizing to watch him slice and chop, the blade rhythmic as it glints against the wood.

“The nights on Capri were the best. After work, we’d go down to the beach and the ocean would be so calm and warm. I’d lie in that saltwater and look up at the moon, and just let the surf wash over me. I felt healed. Then we’d build a big fire and roast langoustines, and have some homemade wine with it. That’s my idea of bliss.” He looks up at me. “I can’t wait to take you there.”

Roman is very neat when he works, straightening the kitchen as he goes, maybe his tidiness coming from the necessity of working in small spaces. Nothing is wasted in Roman’s cooking, he respects every stalk, leaf, and bud of an herb that he uses, examining it before mincing it or rubbing it into a recipe. In his hands, common foods become elements of delight, crackling softly in butter, steaming in cream, and drizzled with olive oil.

Roman opens a container filled with finely chopped vegetables-bright green cucumbers, red tomatoes, yellow peppers-and broken bits of fresh parmesan cheese. He sprinkles the vegetables with balsamic vinegar from a tiny bottle with a gold stopper. “This is very special. It’s twenty-two years old. Last bottle! It’s from a farm outside Genoa. My cousin makes it himself.”

Roman fills two bowls with the chopped salad. I remember telling him how much I love raw vegetables finely chopped; he remembers and he delivers. He opens a second bottle of wine, this one earthy and hearty, a Dixon burgundy 2006. He turns to the stove and flips the steaks, which make a cloud of steam. A misty cloud rises from the pan of rice. He lifts it off the burner and spoons the hot rice mixture onto the dishes. He throws the moppeen over his shoulder and lifts the other pan. He places the lean steak artfully on top, my dish of rice first and then his. Then he drizzles the sauce from the pan on top of the steak and rice.

“Should we sit at the table?” I ask him.

“No, this is better.” He pulls out a stool and sits down across from me. “I feel like I’m at a board of directors meeting when I sit over there.”

I pick up the knife to cut the steak, but I don’t need it. I break off a piece with the fork. The savory sauce has cooked through the meat in an explosion of flavors that are magnified by the sweet grapes that turn hearty and earthy to taste. I chew the delectable bite. “Marry me,” I say to him.

“And here I thought you were breaking up with me.”

I put my fork down and look at him. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“Come on, Valentine. I’m the worst. I really blew it the past two weeks. Teodora is gone, and I planned to come over every night and spend a lot of time with you.”

“It’s okay,” I stammer. It’s as if that seagull delivered to Roman a message from my epiphany on the roof this morning. He really can read my mind.

“No it isn’t. I wanted to be with you, but then things went wild at the restaurant and I blew it. That’s all there is to it. But I’m sorry about it. I wanted to make this time special for you.”

“I hate that we spend a lot of time apologizing to each other for working hard. It’s the way it is. We’re both trying to build something.” I love how I was ready to kill him this morning and now, I’m making excuses for him. This surely falls under the category Be Adorable, doesn’t it?

“I don’t know how else to do it. I don’t know how to run a restaurant and not be there twenty-four hours a day. I don’t think it’s possible. Now, down the line, when it’s established and I’ve paid back my investors, and I find the right chef to replace me in the kitchen, then this becomes a different discussion.”

It’s funny that Roman uses the word discussion, when we haven’t had one. I attempt to be understanding when I say, “I guess I don’t know where I fit in your life right now. And I don’t want to ask you to put me first, because that’s not fair either.”

Roman folds his arms on the counter and leans forward. “What do you need to hear from me?”

“Where do you see this going?” There it is. I put it out there. The second it’s out of my mouth, I wish I could take it back. But it’s too late. The last thing I wanted to do was turn our last night together into one of those talks.

“I’m serious about you,” he says. “I don’t have a high opinion of myself when it comes to being a husband, because I tried and failed at it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to try again.”

“How do you feel about my career?”

“I’m in awe of you. You’re an artist.”

“And you are, too.” I sip my wine. “You are also the Emergency Glass Box guy.”

“What’s that?”

“At the first sign that we’re going down in flames, you break the glass and pull the lever and save the day. Like coming over here tonight. Cooking for me. Taking me to Capri without leaving the dinner table. Kissing me with great wine on your lips. Telling me you’re in love with me. That was the crème fraîche on the caviar.”

“I want this.”

“Roman, you have fallen in love with me.”

“I wouldn’t waste caviar from the Black Sea on a fling.”

“What does the fling get?”

“Potato chips.”

I laugh. “So that’s how I tell?” I smooth the napkin on my lap. “The caviar test?”

“There are other ways.” Roman comes around the counter to my side. To be honest, I don’t want to stop eating this dinner, but sometimes a woman has to choose between food and sex, and it’s the idiot who chooses food. I can reheat the steak later, but letting Roman know that I’m in love with him, too, is a moment that won’t come around again. Well, it might. But it would be different. So, I push the plate away as he lifts me off the stool and into the moment. Desire definitely has a shelf life. Delay love or the expressing of it, and it dies. Take it for granted, and it goes away, like the morning snow on the roof during the ides of March.