Apricot Kisses Read Online Free
Author: Claudia Winter
“Your powers of observation are amazing.” Maybe I should put Nonna on the windowsill. That way she’d have a view of the runway.
“Actually, psychology is one of my minors,” she says. There’s a pause. “All right. I’ll go and get your order.”
“Sorry?” When I glance up, all I see is her round, disappearing backside. Very pretty.
I turn away and watch a Lufthansa plane dock at a gate. A man in a yellow security vest drives a cart toward it. As another worker opens the cargo door, my briefcase starts to vibrate. Well, my phone, which I’ve been successfully ignoring for two days. It’s probably Lucia, or maybe Rosa-Maria. If I’m unlucky, it’s Marco. They’ll kill me even before I touch down on Italian soil. I can’t blame them after the stammered message I left on the trattoria’s answering machine: Nonna died. I’ll arrive Friday. That’s all I said.
I bend down to my briefcase with a sigh. I can’t find the phone right away; instead my fingers touch something stashed in a side pocket that I’d rather forget: the magazine from the waiting room. I automatically flip to the article, which I’ve read at least twenty times, and wish for the hundredth time I hadn’t translated its harmless-looking sentences for Nonna.
Tre Camini Spoils la Dolce Vita !
How lovely it could have been, sublime, really, if this magazine handed out stars for the most beautiful location. Because Tre Camini is definitely pretty, especially for adventuresome guests who dare to leave the Strada Provinciale 88 shortly after the little village of Montesimo and follow the unmarked gravel road. Their reward? A picture-perfect vista of Tuscany, the kind that tourists love to send home on postcards: a grand manor house crowning a hill that is covered with wildflowers, a hill that is as perfectly round as the puff-pastry bonnet on Paul Bocuse’s famous truffle soup.
The ocher-yellow stone building seems to lean a little, but not enough to cause uneasiness when you enter. You’re the only patron at 8:00 p.m., but even this doesn’t arouse suspicion at first. After all, you’ve been told in the village that the kitchen “up there” is the best, far and wide. But if you believed it at first, disillusionment sets in quickly. The friendly young server is overtaxed when asked for a wine recommendation, and then brings a glass of red wine instead of the requested pinot grigio. It’s the house wine, she says. The nameless wine is light and fruity with a velvety aftertaste, so you are inclined to forgive her ignorance.
Unfortunately, this is the overture to a culinary tragedy beyond compare—and that in a country celebrated worldwide for its cuisine. Half an hour later, the guest sits without a spoon in front of the trattoria’s specialty, ribollita. The famous Tuscan soup turns out to be made with store-bought broth and some frozen vegetables that bob up and down like corpses. It is served with stale bread.
The second course tempts you to a game of pick-up sticks with the undercooked noodles hidden under a mountain of mysterious green sauce. The cook makes a valiant attempt to increase your revulsion with the main course: lamb, the consistency of a leather sole. No trace of a side of vegetables or a salad, just two tough, meaty rags accompanied by a dab of mustard from a jar. By now the guest knows better than to order a dessert—
“Really, our roast doesn’t look that bad.”
Startled, I fold the wrinkled magazine and glance at the indifferent assortment of meat, mashed potatoes, and grayish-brown gravy that’s appeared in front of me. Then I look up. The waitress returned in record time.
“Forgive me. My thoughts were elsewhere.”
A frozen smile, the one she probably uses for hundreds of customers, replaces the woman’s earlier flirty one. “That’s all right. Enjoy.”
I put the magazine back into the bag and grab my fork before the waitress says anything else. I’m relieved when she stalks away with swaying
“Actually, psychology is one of my minors,” she says. There’s a pause. “All right. I’ll go and get your order.”
“Sorry?” When I glance up, all I see is her round, disappearing backside. Very pretty.
I turn away and watch a Lufthansa plane dock at a gate. A man in a yellow security vest drives a cart toward it. As another worker opens the cargo door, my briefcase starts to vibrate. Well, my phone, which I’ve been successfully ignoring for two days. It’s probably Lucia, or maybe Rosa-Maria. If I’m unlucky, it’s Marco. They’ll kill me even before I touch down on Italian soil. I can’t blame them after the stammered message I left on the trattoria’s answering machine: Nonna died. I’ll arrive Friday. That’s all I said.
I bend down to my briefcase with a sigh. I can’t find the phone right away; instead my fingers touch something stashed in a side pocket that I’d rather forget: the magazine from the waiting room. I automatically flip to the article, which I’ve read at least twenty times, and wish for the hundredth time I hadn’t translated its harmless-looking sentences for Nonna.
Tre Camini Spoils la Dolce Vita !
How lovely it could have been, sublime, really, if this magazine handed out stars for the most beautiful location. Because Tre Camini is definitely pretty, especially for adventuresome guests who dare to leave the Strada Provinciale 88 shortly after the little village of Montesimo and follow the unmarked gravel road. Their reward? A picture-perfect vista of Tuscany, the kind that tourists love to send home on postcards: a grand manor house crowning a hill that is covered with wildflowers, a hill that is as perfectly round as the puff-pastry bonnet on Paul Bocuse’s famous truffle soup.
The ocher-yellow stone building seems to lean a little, but not enough to cause uneasiness when you enter. You’re the only patron at 8:00 p.m., but even this doesn’t arouse suspicion at first. After all, you’ve been told in the village that the kitchen “up there” is the best, far and wide. But if you believed it at first, disillusionment sets in quickly. The friendly young server is overtaxed when asked for a wine recommendation, and then brings a glass of red wine instead of the requested pinot grigio. It’s the house wine, she says. The nameless wine is light and fruity with a velvety aftertaste, so you are inclined to forgive her ignorance.
Unfortunately, this is the overture to a culinary tragedy beyond compare—and that in a country celebrated worldwide for its cuisine. Half an hour later, the guest sits without a spoon in front of the trattoria’s specialty, ribollita. The famous Tuscan soup turns out to be made with store-bought broth and some frozen vegetables that bob up and down like corpses. It is served with stale bread.
The second course tempts you to a game of pick-up sticks with the undercooked noodles hidden under a mountain of mysterious green sauce. The cook makes a valiant attempt to increase your revulsion with the main course: lamb, the consistency of a leather sole. No trace of a side of vegetables or a salad, just two tough, meaty rags accompanied by a dab of mustard from a jar. By now the guest knows better than to order a dessert—
“Really, our roast doesn’t look that bad.”
Startled, I fold the wrinkled magazine and glance at the indifferent assortment of meat, mashed potatoes, and grayish-brown gravy that’s appeared in front of me. Then I look up. The waitress returned in record time.
“Forgive me. My thoughts were elsewhere.”
A frozen smile, the one she probably uses for hundreds of customers, replaces the woman’s earlier flirty one. “That’s all right. Enjoy.”
I put the magazine back into the bag and grab my fork before the waitress says anything else. I’m relieved when she stalks away with swaying
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