Don't Diss the Chef

"Sarah, do know who R. Bradley Leonard is?"

"Oh course. He is the Vice-President for UBL's west coast Wealth Management operations. My boss's boss. Why do you ask?" Brenda tilted her head a little and smiled a pseudo-smile that implied bad, evil, even earth shaking events.

"Well, Mr. R Bradley Leonard is in Phillip's office, and he would like to see you. Next."

Sarah looked puzzled, "Next? And what is Mr. Leonard doing here? I didn't see any emails to the effect that he was coming?"

"'Next' means everyone else in the department has already been in to see him. As for why he's here — I'll let him explain."

To say that Sarah walked down the hall to Phillip's office with a certain amount of trepidation would be an understatement. She was scared stiff that she was going to be fired for some reason, although in truth, she couldn't remember doing anything worse than maybe 'borrowing' a pencil or pen from the office to take home. Just to write shopping lists.

"Please, Sarah, come in," boomed the voice of R. Bradley Leonard, "I think that we've met before at the regional meetings, but I've never had the pleasure of speaking to you one-on-one. Oh, and please call me 'Brad'. I don't stand much on formalities."

"Yes sir, I mean 'Brad," Sarah replied, while entering the office and sitting as instructed. She looked around at the office; something seemed a little odd.

"Excuse me Sir, I mean, Brad. Where is Phillip?"

"Ahem. Well that is the reason for our little meeting here today.

"Tell me, how well did you know Phillip?" he asked.

"Not terribly well. We spoke here at the office on occasion, and once recently Phillip joined us after work for drinks," Sarah replied, her curiosity evident.

"Did he ever ask you about your work, or about the procedures that the Wealth Management Group used?" Formality or not, Brad seemed to be very serious about this line of questioning.

"No Sir. Actually, he and I only ever spoke about personal things — he was giving me advice in how to deal with my boyfriend, you know, from a man's point of view," Sarah said, blushing as she admitted to the fact. "And in fact, his advice wasn't very good, because it only made things worse. May I ask why you are interested?"

"In short," Brad explained, "The man we knew as Phillip, it turns out, was not Phillip Woodword. He is some sort of imposter, who managed to get the real Phillip Woodword's information, and acquired or manufactured documentation that convinced our corporate HR people that he was Phillip Woodword.

"At this point, it's not clear who he actually was, and he seems to have cottoned on to the fact that we were on to him, and he has disappeared into the woodwork. And now we have to figure out what, if anything, he took or did during his tenure with UBL.

"Thank you for coming in and answering our questions, Sarah. I hope that we meet again in more positive circumstances. And if you hear from him, or have any relevant information that might come to mind — anything that he might have told you that you don't remember at this moment, here is a card for my office; call me and let us know."

Sarah walked quietly back to her office. "How stupid could I have been? Some complete fraud convinced me he was so educated and smart and I believed him. And he shook my faith in a man who I knew was smart, and who was educated, just in a different way." She made it back to her office before she started weeping again.

Sarah wanted to, no, she needed to talk to Mark, to explain, to apologize, even to grovel a little. But she couldn't find him. It was like he'd dropped off the face of the earth. His phone was no longer in service; no one from Bistro knew where he'd moved, but he wasn't working there anymore. Even his Facebook page had been shut down. It seemed ironic to Sarah that Mark Flore had disappeared as completely as the phony Phillip Woodword.

~*~*~*~

WARNING! Dear readers — in the remainder of the story, some of the dialog is in 'dialect'. This is not intended to offend anyone. I was in Italy last year and I've tried to recreate the wonderful English with an Italian accent that I heard there. There are a lot of words to which an 'ah' sound is added. Some words lose letters — 'g's at the end of words, and 'h's at the beginnings. 'The' sounds like 'dee'. So be prepared. Put on your best Italian accent, and read the dialog out loud phonetically. And to add a real Italian flavor, with your hands, put your thumb touching the first and second fingers, and turn your hand so it's pointing up, then go back and forth moving your hands at the wrist. Now'a thats'a real Italiano!

~*~*~*~

So it was that months later, Sarah and her friend Brenda found themselves waiting in a line to get into L.A.'s newest, hottest restaurant — 'Trattoria Veni Vidi' on the Malibu pier.

Mark and the new maître d' of Veni Vidi, Antonio Fiumi, an Italian immigrant, known universally as 'Tony', were looking through a small window in the kitchen at the line of people waiting to get into the restaurant. Although they didn't take reservations, if they spotted Goldie Hawn or Pamela Anderson, or one of the other famous Malibu residents waiting, Tony would sneak them in and seat them at Mark's special 'reserved' table.

"Oh shit," Mark said under his breath.

"Wha's that'a, boss?" Tony asked, thinking that perhaps a food critic or some other vile reprobate was in line.

"There towards the back of the line. See the redhead?"

"Oh, si. D' one wi' the nice apair?" Tony noted when he spotted her, his hands making the universal 'big tits' motion.

"Yeah, she's the one. Her name is Sarah Bell, and she's my ex-girlfriend."

Tony thought that one over, and considered for a moment how he would respond to one of his old girlfriends showing up.

"You want I should'a tell her to butts off, an' forget'a 'bout eatin' here?"

Mark just shook his head, and looked at Tony.

"First Tony, it's 'buzz off' not 'butts off'. Lord, you will get us in to trouble if you confuse those two words. And no, I don't want you to get rid of her. Why don't you bring her around and put her at my table, and I'll put together dinner for her and her friend."

"Ok'a boss'a man. I jus' 'ope that'a Barbara not'a show up tonight. You know 'ow upset'a she get, when you'a no seat 'er at your'a table!"

"Tony, you know as well as I do that Miss Streisand was here last night, so it is very unlikely that she will be here again tonight..."

The upshot was, that Tony ventured into the night, and found himself face-to-face with Sarah and Brenda.

" 'eya, you two nice'a ladies, I'm'a Tony d' maître d' of'a Veni Vidi. Could'a you please'a come with'a me, aroun' d' side?"

A suspicious Brenda looked askance at the stranger.

"If we follow you, we'll lose our place in line."

Tony was nonplussed by her response.

"But I'm'a take'n you in'a d' restaurant by d' side door!" he stated.

"How do I know you're really the maître d', and not some imposter who suckers people out their place in line?"

"Lady," Tony said in a firm, no nonsense tone, "You see'a how I am dress? You think'a d' phony-baloney maître d' go outta and buy d' tuxedo suit to'a fool you?"

Sarah intervened, "Brenda, just follow the man. If we lose our place, we'll just scream bloody murder until they give us our place back."

Tony beamed.

"You see! Do'a wha' d' lady she say."

And with that, Tony led them around to the side door, into the dining room and seated them at the special 'Chef's Reserved' table.

Tony seated them himself, pulling out their chairs for them, presenting them with napkins, and generally treating them like royalty. As soon as they had been seated, Tony turned and snapped his fingers, and a waiter instantly came to the table and dropped off a champaign style glass filled with a clear sparkling liquid for each of them.

Tony stood by, as they picked up their glasses, and made a little 'toast' to themselves and took a sip.

"This'a drink'a she is called in Venezia, d' 'Spritz', and she is'a made from..."

Sarah closed her eyes and sighed, and interrupted Tony.

"From Prosecco, sparkling water and Aperol! And it's perfect. Brenda, this tastes exactly like the ones that Mark used to make for me."

Tony smiled, bowed and excused himself to return to his other duties.

While Sarah and Brenda sat enjoying their 'Spritz's and wondering when someone would arrive with their menus, other people in the room were wondering who these two lovely ladies were who had been put to the head of the line, so to speak, and seated at what the connoisseurs knew was the table reserved for VIPs. Models? Movie stars? They had become ladies of mystery who'd taken the chef's fancy.

Back in the kitchen, Mark was getting ready to leave for a while.

"OK Tony. Everything is set — serve them the dishes I've set out, and make sure that they have a really great time. No bill! They are on the house tonight."

"Boss'a, where'a you goin'?" Tony asked, looking at Mark as he donned his leather jacket.

"I'm going for a ride up the coast. I...well; I just can't stay here right now."

And with that, Mark walked out of the restaurant, and over to the parking area where his Porsche was parked. He started up his new toy, pulled out, and headed up PCH towards Oxnard. He figured he could stop at Paradise Cove, or find a bar in Oxnard to hang in for a little while.

Back at the table, the girls were on their second Spritz, and had been served a basket full of sliced whole wheat Nicosia olive bread, made with olives, onions and thyme, accompanied by a small dish of garlic butter and an olive bruschetta in a second dish.

Brenda was eating slices of bread, alternating between spreading butter and the bruschetta on the robust loaf.

"I think I've died and gone to heaven!" she said between pieces.

Sarah, on the other hand, had a strange, quizzical look on her face.

"You know, Brenda, this bread and the bruschetta taste just like what Mark used to make for us, when he was doing his 'Italian' thing."

"Really? And you dumped a man who could cook for you like this?" was the ever practical Brenda's response.

Before Sarah could go any further with her thought, the waiter brought a bottle of red wine to the table. Sarah noticed that it was Chianti Reserve 2007 from the Verrazzano winery in Tuscany — a wine that Mark had told her was one of his favorite wines, from one of the best wineries in the Tuscan region.

"Excuse me," Sarah said to the waiter to get his attention, "but we didn't order this. In fact, we haven't actually ordered anything yet — but we keep getting served!"

"But Miss, it's all on the meal ticket. I saw it back in the kitchen."

Sarah persisted, "But if we aren't ordering all of this, how can you expect us to pay for it?" Sarah was actually becoming a little worried, since she'd heard about the prices at the restaurant, and meals costing several hundred dollars per person were not unusual.

The waiter looked at Sarah blankly, "The meal ticket is marked 'paid', so you aren't paying for it."

Brenda perked right up when she heard that!

"Sarah, we've won the lottery! Don't say another thing, because I, for one, am really enjoying this meal. Do not question this. It is a sign from God."

Sarah shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, but stopped complaining. Plus the wine was excellent.

The main course was no surprise in an Italian restaurant. A pizza, but what a pizza it was.

The dough was thick, with a slightly sweet bread-like consistency, covered by a pizza sauce and pieces of cooked tomatoes and topped with mushrooms, sausage and cheese. But when Sarah tasted her first bite of the pizza, she motioned Tony to come over to their table.

"Tony, this pizza — can you tell me about it?" asked a now rather stern looking Sarah.

"Well, d' boss'a, he make'a d' dough ever' day. We make'a the sauce d' couple times a week. We use'a only d' mozzarella bufala cheese, and d' sausage, she'a come from'a fellow in Pear Blossom who'a he's makin' it especial for d' boss. We only use'a tomatoes that are'a kept until they are'a red on'a d' vine, and d' fungi..."

Sarah interrupted again, "are rare, and they use pigs to find them?"

Once again, Tony beamed, as he nodded in the affirmative.

"You'a got it. All'a of d' things together make'a this d' best'a pizza in'a Los Angeles, maybe in'a California, maybe in'a d' world!"

As Tony walked back to his station, Sarah turned to Brenda.

"Brenda, this pizza is exactly like the ones Mark used to make; this was my favorite pizza combination. And only Mark made them like this!"

Brenda shrugged her shoulders, and took another bite from the pie.

"It's great. I love it. Eat. We can talk later," she concluded, getting back to the serious business of devouring this unique and extraordinary pizza.

Sarah did as Brenda suggested, and joined her friend as they drank their Chianti and ate their pizza. Sarah though, still had her suspicions.

It was the dessert that tipped Sarah from suspicion to out-and-out paranoia.

It was a triple-berry pie filling, in a tort style crust, topped with a hand-made lavender-infused whip cream and fresh berries. It was delicious, with its fragrant lavender smell, combined with the mixture of blueberries, black berries and raspberries, and it was the final outrage for Sarah.

"Brenda, I swear: this dessert recipe is identical to the one that Mark makes. There is something funny going on here!" And with that, she motioned Tony over again.

"She's a good'a dessert, si?" he said, as he approached the table.

"Yes, it was a delicious dessert Tony. But could we possibly speak to the chef?" Sarah asked, on the trail of a mystery.

"Im'a sorry, lady, but'a d' boss'a, 'e a left just'a about'a d' same time'a you are arriving," Tony explained, apologetically.

"Ah," Sarah said, not sure if she really believed Tony's story of the missing chef. "Then may I ask: what is the chef's name?"

"Oh sure'a — his'a name is'a Marko d'Fiorenze," Tony revealed.

"Is there'a anythin' else you ladies would'a like? A digestif? D' glass of'a sherry, perhaps'a d' port? And 'ow are you'a liking d' pizza? She is'a d' 'Bella Sara', our'a mos' popular'a pizza."

Hearing the name of the pizza, the 'Bella Sara', Sarah and Brenda looked at each other. Sarah was about to start making a fuss, when Brenda stopped her again.

"Don't you dare say a word. If you do, they'll decide that they made a mistake and that we're really supposed to pay for this meal. And I don't want to be washing the dishes here for the next week!"

Sarah glared at Brenda for her unwillingness to stand up and defend Mark's honor, but decided that now was not the time or the place.

Even though they had assured Tony that they were completely sated, a small glass of icy cold Limoncello was presented to complete the meal.

Shortly afterwards, the two women left Veni Vidi; one happy as a lark to be stuffed to the gills with exquisite Italian food, the other equally filled, but indignant at what she suspected was a great miscarriage of justice.

Sarah feared that this chef Marko d'Fiorenze was making his reputation by stealing her boyfriend's (well, she conceded, ex-boyfriend's) culinary masterpieces. He would NOT succeed!

Sarah was determined she was going to come back and have it out with this ruthless food pirate!

~*~*~*~

The next day things had returned to normal at Veni Vidi.

Tony and Mark were quietly eating an early lunch before the restaurant opened for the day, going over the specials for the dinner sitting, and reviewing the surprise visit from the night before.

"Boss'a, now I am'a understand why you have'a d' Botticelli paintings in d' dining room — you 'ave you' own Simonetta!" exclaimed Tony.

"Simonetta?" Mark asked, obviously missing Tony's meaning.

"Sure — she is'a Sandro Botticelli's redhead'a model who is a d' Venus who is a rising from'a d' 'alf-shell! That was 'er'a name: Simonetta Vespucci. You ex look'a jus' alike her."

Mark thought about it, "You know, I never thought about that but I guess you're right. Sarah does look a lot like the redhead in the paintings."

Then, joking, he turned back to Tony, "But Tony, you better not turn on the Italian charm. I'm still not completely over her," he touched his heart, "and I'd never forgive you if you were to steal off with her!"

"Not to worry, boss. My wife'a, Fabiola, she'sa Italiano too, and she 'ave'a d' 'Christmas' attitude'a about'a d' other women."

"Don't you mean a 'Christian' attitude, Tony?" asked Mark.

"No, no! A 'Christmas' attitude'a: I touch'a d' other woman, Fabiola she a have'a my'a chestnuts roastin' on d' open fire!" he answered, laughing uproariously at his own joke.

There are several places that have been widely recognized for the fact that they provide no real privacy — the Captain's stateroom on an old sailing ship, and anywhere at all in a restaurant. The proof of the latter was that the entire conversation that passed between Mark and Tony was overheard in its entirety by Mark's business partner, Luci, who was sitting in the adjacent dining room area going over the books with her accountant.

Luci was very, very satisfied with the way that 'Trattoria Veni Vidi' had developed. She had gotten the word around to key members of the food press in L.A., who in turn had spoken and written with great anticipation of the opening of a new 'Luci V.' restaurant. The first couple of nights the restaurant served meals limited to a small group of invited friends, to allow the staff of Veni Vidi to work out any kinks in the operation, but after that when the 'official' opening night rolled around, the lines were long and the diners were hungry. And fortunately, the food that Veni Vidi served was so good, that they kept coming back for more.

On the other hand, Luci was not happy that thus far she had not been able to consummate her erotic desires with Mark.

Luci was a wealthy woman. She had been born with the proverbial 'silver spoon' in her mouth. She, with her combined skill at spotting great chefs and her business acumen in the restaurant industry, had actually multiplied the wealth she started with several times over. Luci was a smart, savvy businesswoman.

And she was used to getting her way, but this time her target was not cooperating. Mark just wasn't responding. Her hints, he ignored; the flirting seemed to bounce off of him like water off a duck. When she would give him a wide-open shot of her boobs, or open her legs to invite him to consider dining at the 'Y', he just turned his eyes away. It was really irritating.

Overhearing Mark and Tony's candid conversation, though, gave her an idea.

~*~*~*~

Sarah had gone in to work the day after her dinner at Veni Vidi, but she had been close to useless. Her body was sitting at the desk, but her mind was in a quandary, wondering what her best approach would be to stop this... this... culinary interloper who was poaching Mark's recipes.

"You don't really know that, Sarah," Brenda had insisted that morning. "Maybe Mark 'sold' him the right to use the recipes, or something."

"Never!" Sarah replied, with firm conviction. "Those were HIS recipes that he'd worked on, and he always told me that the only way that he would part with them was if he became really famous, he might put one or two of them in a cookbook.

"If I could only find him, I would let him know — but there still aren't any new listings for Mark Flore. I think he must have moved completely out of the area. If I told him, though, he would be raising hell about it. Mark was such a nice guy, but he was pretty tough too. I wouldn't want to be in the guy's shoes at Veni Vidi when Mark shows up."

Brenda reflected for a moment, "Well, the only way for you to really know what is going on is for you to talk to that chef and confront him. See what he says, and if he doesn't have a good explanation, then you contact the food critic guys who write for the papers and accuse him publicly."