Mafia Chic. Erica Orloff
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And yes, there was some relation to the original Wharton way back in his lineage.
“Is Teddi your real name?” he shouted over the music.
I shook my head. “Theresa. But my grandfather called me Teddi Bear, ridiculous as that sounds, and it stuck.” Of course, I didn’t point out that Angelo Marcello, one of the most celebrated of the old-time mobsters, was my Poppy. I was his teddy bear, his angel, and if anyone thought about touching a hair on my head, there wouldn’t be a federal safe house safe enough for the man, whoever he was.
“That’s really cute.”
I shrugged. “I like it better than Theresa, that’s for sure.”
Lady Di stood and waved to a client. “Back in a jiff, Teddi.”
Robert focused on me again. “I wish I could place you. I just have this feeling we’ve met before.”
“I promise you, we haven’t.”
“I know this is the oldest line in the book, Teddi, but if we haven’t met before, then I have a serious case of déjà vu. I must have known you in another life.”
He was near enough to me that when he bent his head to better hear me, I could smell his cologne. Maybe it was the loud music, but he leaned in so close to me that he gave the impression that he wanted to hear every word I said.
“Maybe…” Anxious to change the subject, to steer him away from the Marcello and Gallo family names, I asked him how he got into journalism.
“Please. Every kid who ever saw All the President’s Men wanted to be the next Woodward or Bernstein and packed off to college…and I was no exception. I changed my major from business. I found I had the stomach for journalism. I wasn’t squeamish at crime scenes. I didn’t mind working my way up from the bottom. I was always comfortable at public speaking, so speaking in front of a camera wasn’t a big deal.”
“I’d rather do just about anything than speak in front of a group of people.”
“Number-one fear for most people.”
Should I tell him that in my neighborhood, the number-one fear is having my uncle Lou show up to collect a bad debt? I opted to shut up.
Around two o’clock in the morning, I realized my alarm was going to ring mighty early for opening the restaurant. By this time, Di had rejoined us, and we’d ordered another bottle of champagne. As we poured the last of it into our glasses, I nudged Di and said we had better go.
“What time is it?” Robert pushed up the cuff of his shirt and read his Rolex. “Jesus! The night flew by.”
We all stood. Robert kissed my cheek, took a card from the restaurant and promised to call to arrange dinner. (If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that line, I could have bailed out my uncle Jackie the last time he was arraigned.)
Lady Di and I said goodbye and made our way through the packed main club, its dance floor so crowded you couldn’t fit a slip of paper between the dancers, and went outside. The doorman hailed us a cab. Nestled into the back, Di was both drunk and ecstatic for me.
“Robert Wharton…old money, handsome and a high-profile job on top of it. I think this is your lucky night, Teddi, you Chinese mouse, you! Or is it a rat?”
“Lady Di,” I slurred, the champagne long since gone to my head. I could only imagine the hell of standing over a hot stove the next day. “Given the unfortunate incarceration of half my family, and the fact that there are one hundred hijacked Betsey Johnson dresses in the basement of my parents’ house, do you really think a high-profile relationship is such a good idea?”
“Fuck it all,” she said. “Then a toss in the hay and you’re done with him. But really, Teddi, do they expect you to marry a mobster?”
I frowned. “No…I guess not.”
“Trust me, darling. He seemed positively mad about you. If this works out, your parents will be delighted.”
“I doubt it. But let’s take it one step at a time.”
As the cabbie raced through the streets of Manhattan, I tried to quell the feelings of nausea in my stomach. But whether it was from the champagne or the prospect of telling “old money” Robert Wharton about my family tree, I wasn’t exactly sure.
The next day I walked the twenty blocks to work. I’m one of the few New Yorkers blessed with an easy commute—a brisk walk instead of clinging to a subway strap for dear life, or exhaust fumes filling my nostrils as I ride the bus. The only tough thing is three days a week I work early. As in really early.
At six-thirty, on three hours’ sleep, and my head pounding as if some heavy-metal drummer had taken up residence in my left temple, I was already starting a pot of gravy—what we Italians call spaghetti sauce—which would be used for the manicotti, as well as several pasta dishes. I took out fresh parsley and began chopping, finding a rhythm as the sharp knife hit the cutting board—chop, chop, chop—my fingers curled to control the blade. My cousin Quinn only worked nights, and the sous chef, Leon, wasn’t due in until nine-thirty, so I had the place to myself. Leon favored a serious hip-hop station on the radio. Chopping to DMX and Eminem can be kind of therapeutic. It can also get on your nerves. So I spent my mornings alone in silence, humming to myself, thinking of nothing in particular. This morning, however, I was thinking that Lady Di and her wild nightlife were going to be the death of me very soon. And I was thinking that Robert Wharton was very cute in a nonethnic kind of way. I couldn’t imagine someone with the last name of Wharton being struck by the thunderbolt. Somehow, I found that comforting—if he even called, which I doubted. So I put him from my mind and concentrated on the simmering pot after popping two aspirin.
Next, I busied myself making the soup of the day—a pasta fajioli—then went to the front of the house—restaurant talk for the dining room—and fetched a cold club soda from the bar. I looked around the restaurant—my place. Or at least half mine and half Quinn’s. Though to be technical about it, the bank owned a big chunk, too.
I had wanted my own restaurant since I could remember. My grandfather owned a restaurant in Brooklyn, and though he owned it for business reasons—Mafia business reasons—I had spent much of my childhood sitting at its checkered-tablecloth tables, eating authentic food prepared by men who spoke only Italian.
When Quinn and I found our place, it was suffering from neglect. The floors were filthy, the lighting dim and roaches roamed freely across the stainless counters in the kitchen. But Quinn and I saw past all that. Now, with room for twenty-two tables, Teddi’s sparkled. We had the walls painted with a faux finish that resembled stone walls, vaguely reminiscent of Florence, sort of ancient-looking. The ivory tablecloths were crisp, and the plates on each table bore handpainted flowers on the rim. When nighttime came and the small votives on each table were lit, with fresh flowers in each bud vase and a crowd at the bar waiting for a table, it was magical. At the end of every shift, Quinn and I would each have a sambuca with three coffee beans floating for good luck and go over the night and unwind. I had never, not even for a moment, wanted to do anything else, despite the long hours. Despite the fact that it was back-breaking sometimes. Despite the fact that I had a hangover and was staring at a double shift.
I went back into the kitchen—my domain—and continued prepping for lunch. Around ten o’clock the back office phone rang. “Teddi’s,” I answered on line two.
“Is Teddi there? The owner Teddi?”
“Who’s calling?” I was used to food and beverage sales guys calling, trying to get our account. Linen companies. Wine sales reps.
“It’s Robert Wharton.”
“Robert? It’s Teddi.”
“Thought that was your voice.”
I managed to sputter out a hello. A man in Manhattan who actually called when he said he would?
“You gave me your card,” he offered, as if the reason I sounded