Author comment: Lots of footnotes for Italian terms here!
A massive chef towers over me, his uniform adorned with gleaming golden buttons. I fell to the ground after his giant hand slapped my face, and now, I'm looking up at the ghost of the man who taught me everything. His kind eyes seem to twinkle with warmth and wisdom, and I feel a sense of comfort and guidance wash over me as I gaze up at him.
“Scemunito[1], you don’t even recognize me? Who do you think it was, St. Gennaro? Are you gone crazy? Giusè[2], are you going to repeat what you just said in front of me, huh?”
“What? How are you here? Is that... a projection?”
He looks translucent now that I take a better look.
“It’s a magic, Giusè. I’m like Obewan.”
I look at the huge man in disbelief. Sure, the comedy of the moment is not wasted on me, but still. What the hell is actually happening?
“I’m not sure that’s how you pronounce—”
The fat chef hoists me up and bangs me against the wall.
“Bonanotte[3], Giusè. Do you understand? Do you realize what you said? You want to give up on your baker’s pride? Just because you behaved like a child? Is that it? And you give up on all I taught you?”
“Lorenzo, I—”
“Lorenzo this, Lorenzo that. Sfaccimm’[4], Giusè! What?! Do you think I’m stupid? You want to behave like a pussy. Chefs don’t do that. Do I need to slap you again?”
Before I can even respond, the massive chef slaps me again, the force of the impact sending a shockwave through my body. Despite the pain, I can see the concern etched on his face, and I know that he is only trying to help me.
Lorenzo is the Neapolitan chef that taught me more about life than any book, person, or even a family member ever could. I don’t know if I took him too literally as my personal Master Miyagi, but even years after working with him, it was not unlikely for me to find yet another hidden lesson in his teachings.
The more I look at his full figure, his bushy, white beard, the more I get transported back to when I was a young kid learning the craft in his restaurant.
“You are a baker. Fanculo[5] being a [Baker]. What do you care? In your heart, you a baker. [Bakers]? They can eat a dick, Giusè. When you look in the mirror, are you proud of being a baker?”
That was one of his favorite lines. If the vulgarity and the violence weren’t good enough, this has definitely confirmed that it was a projection of the real Lorenzo. How that’s possible is totally beyond me, but I’m not going to waste this blessing.
Lorenzo has always and only been violent with people when they were depressed and about to abandon their careers. Few times would you see him get as passionate as in those moments. And trust me, in the restaurant business, no matter your position, everyone has at least once meditated about giving up.
Be it the thankless clients, the nagging chefs, the sloppy suppliers, and so on, there is always one thing that makes you wish you had chosen to work as anything else.
“Giusè, don’t do the thinking thing you do. Stop. Answer my question. Are you proud of being a baker?”
Am I?
I look through the man’s hardened eyes, slowly raising my arms that have been lying at my sides since he arrived. I clutch his hands, suddenly feeling my mind getting clearer and clearer.
Am I a proud baker?
“I’m sorry, Lorenzo,” I say with regret painted all over my face.
“Sorry about what, uagliò[6]?”
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“I am a proud baker, Lorenzo. You taught me. I couldn’t be otherwise. But sometimes, I don't know. I've been trying my best, but sometimes, it feels like no matter what I do, things just don't go my way. I feel like I'm stuck in a rut, and I don't know how to get out of it. I know I shouldn’t care about getting the [Baker] class, but why is this world not acknowledging all the work I dedicated my life to for the last fifteen years?”
Lorenzo nods, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “A horse that runs needs no spurs.”
I feel some tears in my eyes, but this time, it’s not because of sadness. There are tears because I’ve missed this man. And I feel a blazing sense of pride suddenly reinvigorating my body. My mind feels the clearest in years. I look at the fat man, now fully aware of what he meant.
“Giusè, I have the water on the fire. I’ll have to go soon. Do you understand? Do you remember?”
When he pronounces the last words, I get a vision of a young me, barely thirteen, already learning from a starred chef like him. I remember him hoisting me up and putting me on top of the fridge so that I could learn my lesson about washing my hands before cooking.
I remember having to learn thick Neapolitan slang to actually understand the man. I remember all the times he threw a pan around the kitchen, blasphemously addressing God and Holy Mary with terrible epithets.
I remember the big, careful hands as he designed his dishes. The hearty chatter as he visited the local farmers’ market at dawn to get the best ingredients possible.
I remember him bringing me along for the very first time to a soup kitchen for the homeless, showing me the value of helping others. I remember his eyes as he cooked and served meals from cheap ingredients—I remember him getting angry at those who provided the ingredients, telling them they were going to make people sick.
I remember Lorenzo getting arrested for punching a mob member that tried to steal from an old woman so hard that he had to stay in the hospital for three weeks.
But most of all, I remember a time when baking wasn’t about being the best, about levels, about classes. It was just about love.
I remember when he taught me about smelling the ingredients and the dishes, not just tasting them. He taught me to open the door of the kitchen when some of the dishes came out, letting the clients experience what they were going to eat even before seeing it.
I feel the big, rugged fingers on my face, over my stubble. He’s also as tall as me, even though he weighs around three times more.
“Giusè,” the man looks at me with a sad expression. “What have you been doing wrong? What have I always told you?”
I am at a loss for words for a second. But every time I spoke to Lorenzo like this, it was as if, for a second, my prodigious memory had come back – even when I got older and lost my gifts.
“Being professional is the most important thing. You can be vulgar; you can be funny or friendly... it doesn’t matter, as long as you are professional.”
“And have you been, shtupido[7]?”
“No,” I lower my face.
Lorenzo takes a step back and leaves me some breathing room.
“Raise your head, Giusè.”
“I—”
“I, I, I, I, nothing. You are the best baker and chef I have worked with, Giusè. You don’t need to be fired, and you don’t need to give up. You just need to show these people who you are. We both know; you and me. But do they? They think you are just stupid.
“What have I always told you? You want people to like you, but they start thinking you are stupid, scemo.”
We stare at each other for a second, and I see a paternal smile appear on his lips, together with a sigh and a head shake.
“Giusè, can you promise me something?”
“Yes,” I reply instantly, already shedding tears like a baby.
“If someone tries to take advantage of you, give him the Lorenzo treatment, ok? And when they try to bring you down, show me what you have done with the two three-star chefs. Promise?”
I look at the fat man, his image becoming more and more translucent while tears keep streaming down my face.
“Giusè, if you don’t promise, I’m going to slap you again, ok? Come on, chin up like Mussolini.”
Amidst the sobs, I laugh at one of his favorite jokes.
But I do raise my chin.
“I promise you.”
"One last thing, Giusè. When you feel sad, just remember that I can always come and slap you. It's my way of reminding you to keep going and never give up."
I nod and hug the huge man tightly, receiving a bear hug in return. I hold him tightly, feeling a sense of warmth and comfort wash over me. He can be really harsh at times, but I know that he has a kind and caring heart, and I feel grateful to have had him in my life.
The massive chef smiles down at me, his eyes twinkling with warmth and affection. "Giusè, you were always like a son to me. I'm proud of the man you've become, and I know you'll go on to do more great things. Just remember to always believe in yourself and never give up on your dreams and pride. You are a baker, Giusè. No matter what they say."
I hold him tightly, sobbing on his large chest. All my nightmares and fears melt like ice under the sun—but this also reminds me of all that I lost since I came to Amorium.
As I hold him the tightest, I suddenly feel my body stumbling forward and my arms reaching out to steady myself. "You big, fat...," I say, turning back and drying my tears as I see his shimmering body slowly disappear. "I miss you so much... So fucking much.”
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[1] Variant of the Italian insult ‘scemo,’ which translates to ‘fool’ or ‘stupid.’
[2] Shortened version of the Italian name ‘Giuseppe.’ Joseph, in English.
[3] Dialect for ‘Buonanotte,’ ‘Goodnight.’ In this case, it’s intended as ‘Fuck it.’
[4] Neapolitan slang for ‘scum,’ used in the same way as ‘shit’ or ‘fucking’ in English.
[5] ‘Fuck’
[6] Neapolitan for ‘kid.’
[7] Italian slang for ‘stupid.’