Evie
“Oh my God, taste this.” Zara shoves a plastic fork with something, can’t tell what, on the end of it toward my mouth. “Open up.”
She doesn’t give me much of a choice. I open with no idea what I’m tasting.
Ahh, fried ravioli.
“Where did you get that?” We don’t have it on the menu, either here or in the restaurant. Licking my lips, I have to admit, that’s pretty tasty.
“Evie, where should I put these?” one of my servers asks, lifting up a tray of cavatelli and broccoli. I look at the Sternos, which are all filled.
“Put it over there,” I tell her, pointing to a back table.
“You’re busy. I’ll let you go.” Zara moves from the side of the tent where she’d sidled up to shove a ravioli in my mouth. “You sure you don’t need any help?”
We’ve got a rotation and plenty of extra workers courtesy of a pretty hefty bonus incentive. My dad never really ran the day-to-day operations at Leoni’s, relying on a slew of managers through the years after Mom died. But he had owned the top-selling car dealership and taught me a lot about properly running a business.
If you want the customers to feel valued, he’d say,and you do, more than anything else, then the people serving them better feel valued too.
He ran Fuller’s Auto like a family business, even though none of the employees were actually related. They adored him. It’s hard to believe Fuller’s Auto isn’t actually owned by a Fuller anymore. I can’t even fathom it. But it was either the auto store or the restaurant, and this is what I’ve been training to do since high school. This is my calling, just like Mom’s.
“Hello? Earth to McFly?”
“Huh?”
“McFly.” Zara looks at me weird. “Never mind.”
“I’m good, thanks. Go enjoy Festa.”
“You should make your way around at some point. You know, scope out the competition.”
With more than half of the tents at Festa Italian restaurants, there’s plenty of it. They come from all over PA, and even some from Jersey and the city. Most of the New Yorkers are bakers, though. The majority of those serving food are from PA. I’ve toyed with the idea of bringing our show on the road too, but now that we’ve been nominated for a Cucina Award, that will put Leoni’s on the map much more quickly and easily.
After this weekend, it’s full steam ahead to get ready for the judges.
“Wait,” I call to Zara, who’s already walking away. “You never told me where you got the ravioli from.”
By the look on her face, I can guess.
“You traitor,” I yell, teasing.
I sidle up to Phil, a line cook who’s been with us since he graduated high school.
“A friend of mine just shoved a fried ravioli at me from . . .” I nod my head to the left. “It was really good. Have you had them?”
“Can’t say I have. But you hate fried food.”
Usually that’s true.
“Now I want to try them,” he says.
“Heads up, Phil,” the new runner says as he almost knocks both of us over with a tray of something.
“I’ll go get us some,” I say to Phil, who gives me the side-eye.
“You’re just gonna walk up and order? Just like that?”
I pull down my hat.