Work Text:
Little Italy was usually bustling with activity, but tonight, the streets were vacant. Powdery snow dusted the large gold letters above the restaurant's grand entrance. The crimson curtains were drawn, and the crystal chandeliers had been extinguished. A small sign was propped against an elegant French window. The neat calligraphy was illuminated by an antique street lamp. "CLOSED."
Ice filled the cracks between the empty stretches of sidewalk. Snow fell silently around the store fronts. The scene was tranquil yet melancholic. Gino lowered the brim of his fedora and exhaled a puff of warm, moist air. His breath hung in the atmosphere for a moment before disappearing like smoke from a quenched birthday candle. The old man smiled whimsically as he slipped past the restaurant's polished facade to the back entrance. Keys clanked against a series of locks until the heavy bolted door reluctantly creaked open. He reached into the darkness and flipped a switch; the kitchen was instantly flooded with incandescent light. The clock read 5:03 AM.
Gino occasionally cooked at Ristorante Giorgetti, but such occasions had become increasingly rare. He had not donned the executive chef's hat for months. The old man hung his fedora on an iron hook beside the door. He traded his fur overcoat for a double-breasted jacket and matching white apron. The heavy white fabric had been crisply starched and ironed by the compound's housekeeping staff.
Gino favored strategy over spontaneity; therefore, he was surprised that he had acted upon a mere whim and wandered to the restaurant. The aging don had much on his mind lately. He felt as if he had been called there by some unknown force. Perhaps it was the will of God.
Tall glass jars, filled with blanched almonds, imported sultanas, and candied lemon peels, were placed on a granite ledge that hung over a stainless steel work bench. Apparently the line cooks had forgotten to return the jars to the pantry. The experienced chef tightened his apron as he skimmed through the ingredients in the walk-in refrigerator. The icy shelves were lined with egg cartons and boxes of butter. However, less than a gallon of milk remained. Ristorante Giorgetti had fresh milk delivered daily, but the milkman would not come on Christmas morning. Gino would work with what he had.
He scrubbed his hands with antibacterial soap and steaming-hot water before tucking a fresh hand towel over his apron. The elderly Italian weighed 75 grams of raisins, 75 grams of sultanas, and 150 grams of candied peels. He drew a long, industrial-quality blade from the knife block and sharpened its edge with a wet stone. The movements were swift and controlled. Guns required constant cleaning and maintenance, but knives did, too. Sometimes being a mobster had double benefits.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. The blanched almonds were expertly chopped to a uniform consistency. Gino eyed the boxes of limes, lemons, grapefruits, and oranges that were were stacked beside the walk-in. He grated an orange and halved a lemon. The dried fruit, nuts, and citrus zest were lightly tossed in a bowl and sprinkled with lemon juice. The Italian chef scanned the tall shelf of cooking wines and dessert liquors for a bottle of Caribbean rum. A round amber bottle, imported from the Bahamas, was hiding behind the Vino Santo. The elderly don uncapped the bottle and took a moment to savor its sweet aroma. There was an underlying hint of coconut beneath the aged sugar cane. He resisted the urge to take a sip. He poured a shot of rum into the bowl and allowed it to marinate.
Gino knew this recipe by heart. The secret method had been passed from generation to generation, from father to son, for over two centuries. The old Italian smiled nostalgically as he recalled teaching his grandson how to cook for the first time. Gino had many grandchildren, but Demos, the second youngest, had always been special. The boy was scarcely twelve and weighed only eighty pounds when he emigrated to the United States. His legs trembled as he struggled to carry the measuring scales from one work station to another. His thin arms could barely lift the heavy cast-iron pot. However, an expression of confidence and determination was always etched on his pale features. The boy was so eager to follow in his grandfather's footsteps.
Gino's eyes twinkled with warmth as he sifted bread flower into a ceramic bowl. Demos was a picky eater, but he could never resist this particular dessert. The old Italian heated 300 grams of milk in a small saucepan and added a dash of yeast. After mixing the milk and flour, he covered the ceramic bowl with a damp cloth. The don's mind drifted as he waited for the dough to ferment.
One Christmas Eve, many years ago, Demos had accompanied his grandfather to the restaurant. The slender brunette was obviously a bit tipsy. Some of the finest bottles in the wine cellar had mysteriously disappeared after he and his best friend, Ferris, had sneaked away after dinner. Ferris had fallen fast asleep soon after midnight. However, Demos was determined to continue the time-honoured tradition of making panettone with his grandfather. Gino pretended not to notice the young teen's intoxicated state. It took a lot of wine to get Demos drunk. The family patriarch inwardly laughed as he recalled his own early experimentations with alcohol. Sometimes he could see flickers of himself when he watched his grandson.
Demos handled knives and guns with an unusual level of finesse. However, that Christmas, he accidentally sliced his index finger while chopping almonds. The boy did not wince in pain. He did not panic when the nuts became soaked in a pool of red blood. Demos looked apologetically at his grandfather and quietly cleaned up the mess. The boy respected his grandfather more than anyone else in the world. He was half-British, but he definitely had the heart of an Italian.
Gino glanced at the clock; approximately 45 minutes had passed. He preheated the oven to 375 degrees. The chef effortlessly broke three eggs and added the yolks, salt, and sugar to the flour mixture. He dusted the sterling-silver table with flour and began to kneed the components into a soft dough. As he worked, his mind drifted back to the past. He had lived a full, long life. Gino had become the leader of the family business by the time he was 30. He established the Giorgettis in America and left his brother, Luca, to manage the business in Italy. His life was filled with joys and tragedies. Triumphs and defeats. But despite the unpredictable nature of his work, he knew that he would always have the support of his family.
The dough fermented and nearly doubled in size. Gino added the marinated fruit and some softened butter to the dough. He pressed the dough into a greased cake tin and scored the top with a deep cross. The tin slid into the oven. The old man prepared a cup of espresso while he waited for the panettone to bake. He took a sip of the rich coffee and sighed.
Time had flown by so quickly. Gino knew that his time was nearly up, and a new era would soon dawn upon the Giorgettis. The transition would be awkward initially. Demos was only 23 years old; many new obstacles would appear before his path. However, he was ready. Gino believed that his grandson had the potential to navigate the Giorgettis into an unprecedented era of prosperity.
The old man was surprised when he heard a knock at the door. It creaked open and a thin, half-soaked figure entered the kitchen. Melting snow dribbled down his wool coat. The young man removed his scarf and turned to face his grandfather. An impish grin lit his pale features.
"Merry Christmas!"
Gino wiped his hands on a towel before embracing his favorite grandchild. The young capo laughed lightheartedly. He sniffed the air and his grin widened. "Panettone...I see that you beat me to it! I was wondering why the lights were on at this hour."
The older Giorgetti opened the oven and beckoned for Demos to come closer. The surface of the panettone was a warm, golden brown. Delectable fruit and spice aromas filled the kitchen. Gino removed the pan from the oven while Demos grabbed a basting brush. The younger Italian coated the dessert with a thin layer of butter.
"This reminds me of that one time I made panettone, when I was fifteen. Minus the blood on the cutting board."
Gino smiled and his light blue eyes became clouded as he watched an invisible scene unfold.
"Christmas wouldn't be the same without panettone. I'm glad that you will be there to continue the family tradition," replied Gino. The old man spoke calmly with a rich Italian accent. Demos understood the implied message behind his grandfather's words; the don always spoke very carefully. This was obviously about more than spice cake. However, he wasn't afraid.
"I will always be there to stand by the family's traditions. I promise." Demos met his elder's gaze with respect and confidence. When Gino looked into his grandson's eyes, he saw an eager boy who had grown into a brave and diplomatic young man. The don nodded and slid the panettone onto a festive red platter. Demos grabbed a sheet of gold-flecked cellophane paper and wrapped it around the dessert.
"Well then, we'd better head back to the compound. Maybe Santa left you some presents, Demos?"
"It better not be coal this year. You did look pretty convincing with that fake beard, though."
The two men laughed as they grabbed as they disappeared into the snow.
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Reference: Professional Baking - 4th edition, by Wayne Gisslen
(Le Cordon Bleu textbook)