June 20, 2013

  • The Tenor

     

    The waitresses who came back to the kitchen were swooning: The Tenor had brought his entourage into the little Hungarian restaurant, and he was quite handsome. They giggled and argued over who was responsible for his table.

     

    Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the young girls (not much younger than her) and settled the friendly squabble: Each server would get an opportunity to bring something to the special party. The ladies fled the kitchen and Elizabeth went back to her stove.

     

    A while later, one of the waitresses brought back empty plates, and a message for Elizabeth: “The Tenor wants to compliment your food in person.”

     

    But before the girl could finish her sentence, The Tenor pushed through the kitchen door.

     

    Elizabeth never let a guest into her kitchen. It was a rule; if a guest wanted to see the chef, she came out into the dining room. It irked her that this man had not waited for her at his table.

     

    He apologized and kissed both of her cheeks quickly. Her anger disappeared when he said, “I could not wait to tell you how delicious my dinner was!”

     

    Elizabeth smiled and blushed. Now she could see why her wait staff had all gone weak at the knees. It wasn’t his appearance (though he was nice to look at) as much as his charm. Italian men, she thought. Always so smooth.

     

    He loved to cook, he told her. He loved Hungarian food, and hers was the best he had ever eaten. Could he have her recipe for stuffed cabbage?

     

    Elizabeth shook her head with a smile. Sorry.

     

    The Tenor laughed. He negotiated: He would trade his mother’s recipe for sauce and a song for Elizabeth’s stuffed cabbage recipe.

     

    The cook nudged The Tenor back into the dining room, where he sang La Donna E Mobile, to everyone’s delight.

     

    After service, everyone went home except for Elizabeth and The Tenor. They spent the rest of the evening in the kitchen, making Italian spaghetti sauce, and Hungarian stuffed cabbage.  

     

    And that is how my grandmother met Enrico Caruso.

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