Read Online The Da Vinci Cook by Joanne Pence - Free Book Online Page B

Salads, small and with less variety, were generally served after the entrée to clear the palate—except in restaurants that catered to tourists, where they were served early to be eaten in whatever order the customer preferred.
    They ordered an antipasto of caprese —tomatoes with mozzarella, basil, and spices—a primo of porcini mushroom risotto for Cat, and linguine with pancetta for Angie. As their secondo, both chose the day’s special of veal scaloppine with green olives. For dessert, they decided on one that was typically Italian—sliced melon and walnuts, with a demitasse of espresso.
    “We made it,” Angie said as they clinked their wineglasses together. They both took long sips. Angie could all but feel the drink helping her relax for the first time in twenty-four hours.
    “I can’t believe we’re here,” Cat said. She looked around. “Unfortunately, I don’t see Marcello. I was hoping he’d come out to say hello. He’d better be here.”
    “Let’s eat a bit before we ask about him,” Angie said. She didn’t want disappointment to color their meal or dampen her optimism about this adventure. Who could be anything but optimistic in Rome?
    They quietly enjoyed their antipasto and primo.
    In the restaurant, a family with a couple of children were settling in at one table, and near them an elderly couple were just leaving. Two men who looked like they might be father and son were huddled together having an intense conversation, and sitting alone was a young priest. He was blond and wore glasses with thin gold rims. His long, narrow face was intriguing enough to catch Angie’s attention, as it bore a troubled, almost moody, demeanor.
    She was speculating on what the problem might be when the waiter, the same rotund man who had seated them, brought out their veal scaloppine.
    Angie nodded at Cat, who nodded back.
    “The linguine and risotto were excellent,” Angie said to the waiter. “I’m Angelina Amalfi and this is my sister, Caterina Swenson.”
    He stood as if at attention. “I am Bruno Montecatini.” He patted his bulbous stomach. “I am the maitre d’ of this dining room.”
    Cat spoke up. “We are friends with Signore Piccoletti. Is he here this evening?”
    Montecatini looked surprised. “Signore Piccoletti?” he repeated, confused.
    Cat and Angie glanced at each other. “Marcello Piccoletti,” Cat said. “The owner.”
    “Ah!” The maitre d’ said. “I believe he’s in his summer home in San Francisco.”
    Cat cocked her head. “That’s where we’re from.” Her voice was completely matter-of-fact. “He just left there for Rome. Please tell him we’re looking for him.”
    “I will do so . . . if I see him,” the man said.
    “And what about his brother, Rocco?” Angie asked casually.
    “Rocco?” Montecatini again seemed uncomfortable with the question. “I have never met his brother. Excuse me, please.”
    With that, his stubby legs took him away quickly. As Angie watched him go, something made her glance at the other diners. The family paid no attention, but both the priest and the father and son were watching. All three men looked away when her eyes met theirs.
    “That was strange,” Cat whispered to Angie, drawing back her attention. “Everyone in San Francisco thinks he’s here—and here, they think he’s there. I don’t like it. Why didn’t he tell me about this?”
    “All right.” Angie faced her sister squarely. “Just what is going on between you and Marcello?”
    Cat’s wide-eyed innocence was completely fake. “When I was a kid, I’d go to his house with Mamma and play with his little sister, Josie. I knew the whole family, but then we lost touch for nearly thirty years.”
    “You didn’t answer my question.” Angie’s tone was firm.
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cat filled her mouth with veal and mushroom.
    “I think you do,” Angie argued. “You said he wouldn’t go to Italy without telling you. What’s