My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“As you wish,” I reply, giving her sarcastic bow.

“Inconceivable,” she mutters. I don’t get the joke, but something about the glint in her eye tells me that’s what that was. Perhaps it’s an English language thing I’m unaware of?I can’t wait to see what the kitchen is like. But as exciting as that prospect always is to me, my mind is still on Abigail. When I saw her distress and overheard the things that woman was saying, I couldn’t help but come to Abigail’s rescue. I swooped in to save her day like Superman, but with better hair.

I didn’t know it would get me involved in what followed. How could I have expected that I’d be declared her husband? That we’re now faking a honeymoon?

Ah, but the spice of it all. It’s crazy, it’s insane, and I know it’s dangerous for Abigail. Probably for me too, though for different reasons.

But that just makes it even spicier.

And Abigail? She’s an adventure herself. One I’d like to take.

Trying to distract myself, I head through the grand hall toward the kitchens. Casa Del Mario’s website talked a lot about their three full-service restaurants, multiple grill stations, and twenty-four-hour room service. But of course, other than a picture of the poolside barbecue, there were no pictures of the actual kitchens. I fear I’ll find a bank of microwaves and a freezer full of manufactured shit.

I introduce myself to the maître ’d at the main restaurant, who seems largely unhelpful until I mention Meredith’s name. With that, I am quickly led to the back. I’m pleased to see that it’s an open kitchen, with windows that overlook the dining room like a fishbowl. Sure, that means the kitchen staff are half entertainers on display and half cooks, but it also means more space and equipment that is top-notch and well-maintained.

This might not be so bad after all.

“Chef Toscani, may I present Chef Esmar Maduro. Chef, this is the chef from America I mentioned?”

“Bon bini! Welcome!” a huge, big-bellied and grinning man booms as he comes from behind a workstation to greet me.

His dark complexion beams with warmth, as do his bright eyes and white teeth. I’m instantly put at ease. Some chefs would not accept an outsider into their fold, especially for a special event such as this wedding. But Chef Maduro does not seem to be one of those sorts as he shakes my hand.

“Come into my kitchen, Chef. We have much to do, yes?”

“I hope I’m not intruding,” I say politely, the question laced through.

His laugh is deep, shaking his belly. “No, I look forward to tasting your work. I have not been to Italy since I was a young man, and stories of your fettuccine precede you.”

Fuck, what did Claire say about my pasta? It’s good, Earth-shatteringly so, but I guess I wasn’t expecting this sort of reputation on an island far from my home in Positano by a fellow chef whose admiration I should have to earn.

“I would enjoy creating for you, if you do me the honor of the same, Chef Maduro,” I tell him.

“Naturalmente!” he replies. “I want to know your soul, and the only way to do that is through the belly.” He pats his round middle, smiling wide. “I have known many souls, Chef Toscani.”

He laughs, and I laugh along, finding myself relaxing and at ease. “If you are agreeable, please call me Lorenzo when we’re not on the line.”

He dips his chin in acknowledgement and lays a hand to his chest. “Esmar.”

Greetings made and friendships simmering, he takes me on a tour of his kitchen. The whole time, he’s tossing out bits of information, like how he grows his own herbs for the restaurants, has a vegetable garden on the property, and sources local meats whenever possible.

We finish up our tour with an introduction to the staff, a mixed group of locals and transplants who came to the island for one reason or another and never left. “If you need anything, let Gilberto know. He will be your sous chef, one of my best.”

Gilberto smiles at the praise from his chef. Gilberto is tall and thin, with what seem to be spaghetti noodles for arms and legs. I have heard jokes that one should not trust a skinny chef, but if Esmar says he is one of the best, I will trust that it is true.

“Thank you for assisting me, Gilberto. Can we sit down and go over ingredient lists for the basics? Though I’ll know more after my meeting with the wedding planner tomorrow.”

Esmar shivers. “The wedding planner, she is the frosty woman in black?” He pulls a face of snooty displeasure, straightening his spine and flipping non-existent hair in a perfect imitation of Meredith.

I don’t hide my smile at his obvious dislike. “Yes, she’s quite . . .” I pause, not finding a word in English and not speaking Esmar’s native Papiamento. “Fighe de legno,” I finish. “A wooden bitch.”