33 An Italian Dinner ala Noah Martin
2024 Words
“You know Noah,” Angela removed her brown coat and placed it neatly on the armrest of the sofa, “we ate at this Italian restaurant downtown, and the food, to be honest, wasn’t tasty at all.”
Brice leaned on the wall beside her. He rolled his eyes and said, “Just say that it wasn’t good at all. It was bland and tastes like microwavable food.”
Noah hummed as a response. He sat on the kitchen counter when both of them arrived from a business trip downtown. Brice called him beforehand that he’s going to stay at the farmhouse and rant about how the Italian restaurants in New York City didn't taste as good as those they had dined in at Maple city. Noah allowed him to stay for a week. He did like having company in his farmhouse from time to time. When he told the news to his employees, Nancy was the one whose eyes had glinted. She had regarded Angela as an older sister she longed to have. She asked Noah if the two of them can ride Snowflake during their stay.
“What did you eat?” he called from the kitchen.
Brice poked his head on the arc to the kitchen’s entrance, “Some pasta I’m not familiar of. It tastes so bad I feel like I’m going to upset my stomach.”
“If you happen to puke, please don’t do it on the kitchen sink,” Noah made a disgusted face.
Brice leveled a stare at him. Surely his friend wouldn’t expect him of vomiting on his newly built sink. “If I happen to want to vomit, I’d do it on your face.”
“Brice,” Angela let out a tone of warning, “Don’t say things like that. We’re his guests, remember? He’s our host.”
Noah waved his hands in dismissal, “It’s alright. I’m used to him being like that.” Noah didn’t expect that Angela was the kind of woman that precisely regarded manners.
“It’s the way we talk,” Brice’s hands went up and down Angela’s shoulders. He may have overdone it, and she may not be used to the way they casually talk at each other.
“Don’t worry. I’m not being rude,” he tried to assure her.
Angela tilted her head above to look at his husband, “Okay?” she said. She sounded unsure, though Noah wouldn't blame her. She hadn't seen them together for that long since Brice, and she had been in a long-distance relationship.
“It’s true,” said Noah with his mischievous stare. “Don’t worry about it. Let Brice and I talk like he’s about to retch what I’m trying to say.”
"In your dreams," Brice's lips went to Angela's cheeks—it was a long and gentle kiss that made his wife blush a bit. Her eyes shined, and she gave Brice half a smile. "I'll be going up stairs so that you can talk like you…usually do.” She grinned, “See you later, Noah.”
Noah tipped his head at her, “Don’t worry. I won’t make your husband cry.”
“Don’t worry, honey! I won’t hide his body in the fridge.”
That earned a laugh from Noah.
He twisted his body so that he can face Brice more accurately, “Is the food you ate that bad?”
Brice had his arms splayed on the kitchen counter, “Yes. I can’t believe you’re not criticizing the Italian cuisine here.”
“I’m not the type to dine out.” And besides, Noah had long known that Italian food had been stereotyped with cheese, portions of pasta, and sauce when it was the other way around. The food in Italy mostly depends on what season it is in.
That made Brice’s eyebrows raised, “Whatever do you mean? You don’t have dinner outside?”
Noah shook his head. He lifted the teacup near his mouth, "I don't." He sipped from the brim of the cup, "I usually cook my own meals."
Judging from Brice's look, it seemed like he didn't look the kind of person that would always make his meals.
Okay, Noah’s not going to lie. That made him feel a little bit offended. Nevertheless, he would always cook them food whenever they visit his home, so how come Brice didn’t know he preferred making his meals?
"But, man," Brice stared at his forehead as if he would burn a hole on it, "you'd always order us take-out when we hangout at your crib.”
His question had just been answered. This man—the one he considered closest to him out of all the people he made friends with during his stay here in Maple city, didn’t know that Noah had been cooking him homemade food this entire time.
“Are you serious, man?” he asked in disbelief. He’s about to kick him out of his farmhouse.
“That you always order us take-outs? Yeah?”
Noah took a deep sigh to calm his nerves. “It’s not a take-out.”
Brice looked at him in a way that made him guess he must’ve been not getting the topic at hand. “What are you talking about? That’s take-out. You always give us food on a paper container.”
He laughed a bit, and Noah heard the nervousness in his tone, “That’s definitely take-outs!”
Noah shook his head, “It’s not. I always made them the night before.”
Brice’s face contorted in shock. “Y-you mean…?”
Noah nodded, his grin widening.
“I meant what, Brice? Come on. Don’t hold onto your words. Let them slip out of your tongue.”
The color on Brice’s face turned from pale to a bright shade of pink. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who didn’t know about it.”
“Michael and Nick had always complimented my meals. They knew it was me.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me it was you?!”
Noah shrugged his broad shoulders. The disbelief is showing in his face. “I thought you knew!”
“You thought I knew about the meals you made us? God! No wonder you were all grins and smug-looking when I said I’d like the lasagna best!”
Noah sipped from his cup of tea, “It’s my specialty.”
“Obviously,” Brice answered, the grin spreading all over his face.
“Are you sure you believe me now?”
Brice rolled his eyes, “Of course! What else is there to prove?”
Noah barked out a laugh. “I’m just making sure.”
“What the hell, man. I hope your mom knows you’ve been bullying me for a while now.”
That got Noah’s eyebrows raising, “My mom, huh? Are you guys close now?”
“Would you like me to contact her?” Brice challenged.
Knowing him, Noah already predicted he'd sneak into his phone and try to call his mother. Knowing Noah's mother better than anyone else, he's sure that Brice would have a long, pleasant chat with her.
She’s that talkative, even to strangers. Sometimes his father worries if their mother would be involved in telephone scams. She’s considerably easy to be tricked nowadays.
“Please don’t call her,” He faked begged.
Brice went down from the stool. He opened the cupboard and took out a glass. Then, he scanned inside Noah’s fridge, “I’m not the type that would easily get along well with your mother,” he said as he placed the box of orange juice on the counter in front of Noah.
He began pouring the orange liquid inside the glass, “How’s your parents, by the way?”
“They’re fine. Mom had been growing flowers for a while. I had built her own flower shop with my little sister.”
Brice arched an eyebrow, “Oh. So, they run a flower shop now… that’s quite a fun thing to do.”
Noah scanned through his tablet, “I guess. I’ve heard no complaints… yet.”
“Does your father help run the business?”
“He does. He’d been a great help—and that’s according to my mother. She never lies.”
Brice took a swig on his orange juice. He licked his lips to remove the orange tint that colored the skin above his lips, “Your mom’s very honest!”
“She is. When she doesn’t approve of my cooking, she’d always berate me about it.”
Noah knew her mother was very particular when it comes to her sense of taste. Her mother would always stand next to him when he’s cooking. She’d be as silent as a lamp. Then afterward, she'd list down the things he'd done wrong. The next time Noah prepares for them, his mother will judge the taste of whether or not he had followed what she'd written or if he went away with his style of cooking. Nevertheless, his mother appreciated every meal that he had done, especially the risotto and baked lasagna he'd serve them whenever he's feeling up to cooking it.
“She’s somehow like you, in a way. You resemble your dad, but in terms of abilities and skills, I think you’ve taken most from your mother.” Brice stood and placed the glass on the sink.
“She liked my risotto and lasagna best.” Noah’s proud to say that he fused his mother’s recipe with his, and the taste came out so good his little sister Mary couldn’t stop craving for it for the next weeks to come.
“Have you ever thought of inviting your parents here in America?”
Noah nodded in silence. He had always thought of such an idea, and he even went so far as to have them apply for a residential visa so that the two of them can live nearby him or even here in his farmyard. His mother would've loved that, and his father will not say no, given the fact that his beloved horses are right next door.
“My parents are now living in LA, and they’ve wanted to be nearer when Angela and I would plan to have children.”
Brice sat back to the stool next to Noah. “I’m sure they’d love it here.” Noah stared at his friend, and he confirmed that he had the most genuine smile he’d ever seen. It was always so easy for Brice to smile like an innocent child.
“I’m sure they will,” said Noah as he returned a smile to Brice.
He won't think twice about bringing his family here. He would just need to find the right opportunity to do so.
“Say, how about I cook your dinner tonight?”
Brice grinned, “Will you be putting them in paper containers?”
Noah faked punch him on his arm, “No, damn you.”
“I’ll let Angela know. She would be thrilled. She likes Italian food too much, and she hadn’t tasted authentic Italian meals yet.”
"Which one would it be…" Noah thought of the ingredients he had inside his pantry. There's rice, plates of pasta, parsley, mushrooms, some meat on his fridge, a variety of condiments—it's enough to make risotto or lasagna.
Noah headed to the pantry, his gaze drifting toward the wall clock he placed above the arc between the kitchen and dining room.
“I’ll see you in a few hours then.”
Noah placed all the ingredients in front of him. He decided to make risotto, some ravioli, and Caprese.
He began cooking. He chopped some tomatoes and made the sauce for the ravioli and Caprese. The rice had been steamed for ten minutes now. He moved, chopped, sautéed, mixed, chopped some more—and then he’s finally done.
After an hour, his entire farmhouse had been smelling like authentic Italian restaurants back home.
He heard the shuffling of footsteps, and Angela peaked from the arc that led toward the kitchen.
“That smells so good!”
Noah chuckled, “Your husband didn’t know I’d been feeding him home cook meals for two years.”
Brice appeared behind his wife, “I had a hunch,” he defended himself when Angela threw him a suspicious look.
“What if you also start forgetting things about me?” she asked, her eyes filled with distrust.
“No, darling. That won’t happen.”
“He did it to me,” Noah teased. He slowly placed equal portions of the ravioli on the plate he laid out on the counter.
“Whatever you say,” Angela replied. She puckered her lips in a way that made Brice sweat.
Then, he found Noah’s eyes. “This is your fault.”
“Have some caprese, my guests.”
The night ended with the three of them eating gleefully. Angela kept on praising how good the meal was and never looked at Italian food the same way again. Brice had been proudly bragging that he always like Noah's cooking even though he had thought of it as something he ordered from a fast-food chain. Noah told him he was close to banning Brice out from his house.
- Writer
