Plum Gone: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mysteries Book 2) by A. J. Carton Page B
Authors: A. J. Carton
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from Marin who don’t know a Bolognese sauce from tomato ketchup. But when they practice their Italian…” he shook his head. “It’s murder. I gotta give them credit, though. They try. And the clothes?” Sergio kissed his fingertips. “Hand made suits – Kiton, Etro sportswear. I wish I could afford to dress like that. Look at them.”
Emma turned, in spite of herself, to follow Sergio’s and Jack’s eyes to the table. Four Chinese men sat there conversing, obviously enjoying their meal. Even from a distance, they looked impressive in their beautifully tailored suits and designer ties. Emma guessed there was nothing “Made in China” about them except themselves.
“So, what did they order?” Emma asked.
“Potato gnocchi and the veal Bolognese ,” Sergio answered.
“What wine did they choose?” Jack added, “without the benefit of Peppino’s expert advice, I mean.”
Sergio waved his hand up and down, sideways. “They knew exactly what they wanted. And they chose well. A 2011 Soliste St. Andelain Sauvignon Blanc with the gnocchi. And a 2012 Two Shepards Saralee Grenache Noir with the veal. I might have chosen a different red; but...” he shrugged. “All this in Italian, mind you. Which was pretty good except for putting the accents on all the wrong syllables.”
“They’re dropping a bundle,” Jack laughed. “You’re right. Only a dumb Lucchese like Peppino Pieri would turn away business like that.”
Emma winced. Peppino was waving, walking towards their table. Thank goodness the only thing wrong with the hearty old Tuscan was that he was hard of hearing.
Twenty minutes later, after Peppino offered them a dozen or so wines to taste, Jack selected a 2012 Preston GSM, a 2012 Macphail and a 2010 32 Winds Hirsch Pinot Noir for the dinner.
“I’ll have it all delivered to your house tomorrow,” Peppino promised, patting Jack on the back with a paternal smile.
But when the old man turned to bid Emma goodbye, she saw his eyes meet those of one of the Chinese men seated at the table behind her. Emma looked over her shoulder at him. The man waved, obviously motioning Peppino to his table. Instead of waving back, the winemaker scowled, turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction.
Emma knew Jack saw the exchange as well.
“Great way to make enemies,” she mused. “Barry won’t be happy with that performance. I’ve heard from Piers that Barry has been trying to make nice with the Chinese.”
“Enemies?” Jack shrugged in his fatalistic Sicilian way. “At Peppino’s age, who cares?”
By then, they had finished dessert. Z uppa Inglese , an Italian riff on English pudding made with custard and home made ladyfingers. It tasted so much like Emma’s grandmother’s version of the dish, it brought tears to her eyes.
And Emma laughed so hard she almost did cry when the woman at the neighboring table complained that Sergio didn’t list the ubiquitous tiramisu on his menu.
“What kind of Italian restaurant is this?” she pouted. “Imagine,” she said addressing Jack, “no tiramisu .”
As they got up to leave, Jack turned to Emma. “Do you mind stopping by my house before I take you home? I thought you could help me figure out, you know, how to plan this party. I took your advice and invited Bob Monroe and his wife. You know Bob? He runs Monroe Realty.”
Emma nodded. She’d heard of him. “Good call,” she added, somewhat relieved. Bob was young. His presence, and that of his wife, would ease the awkwardness between their daughters.
Jack nodded. “I thought Cara and Mike would enjoy them. My point is I’ve never given a party before. I mean, all by myself. I’m gonna need some help.”
At that moment, Emma noted Jack did look helpless. There was something endearing about it.
“Sure, I’ll stop by,” she said. “If you don’t mind my poking around a bit – like for glasses, dishes, cutlery, placemats. I can lend you stuff if you need it.”
Jack
Emma turned, in spite of herself, to follow Sergio’s and Jack’s eyes to the table. Four Chinese men sat there conversing, obviously enjoying their meal. Even from a distance, they looked impressive in their beautifully tailored suits and designer ties. Emma guessed there was nothing “Made in China” about them except themselves.
“So, what did they order?” Emma asked.
“Potato gnocchi and the veal Bolognese ,” Sergio answered.
“What wine did they choose?” Jack added, “without the benefit of Peppino’s expert advice, I mean.”
Sergio waved his hand up and down, sideways. “They knew exactly what they wanted. And they chose well. A 2011 Soliste St. Andelain Sauvignon Blanc with the gnocchi. And a 2012 Two Shepards Saralee Grenache Noir with the veal. I might have chosen a different red; but...” he shrugged. “All this in Italian, mind you. Which was pretty good except for putting the accents on all the wrong syllables.”
“They’re dropping a bundle,” Jack laughed. “You’re right. Only a dumb Lucchese like Peppino Pieri would turn away business like that.”
Emma winced. Peppino was waving, walking towards their table. Thank goodness the only thing wrong with the hearty old Tuscan was that he was hard of hearing.
Twenty minutes later, after Peppino offered them a dozen or so wines to taste, Jack selected a 2012 Preston GSM, a 2012 Macphail and a 2010 32 Winds Hirsch Pinot Noir for the dinner.
“I’ll have it all delivered to your house tomorrow,” Peppino promised, patting Jack on the back with a paternal smile.
But when the old man turned to bid Emma goodbye, she saw his eyes meet those of one of the Chinese men seated at the table behind her. Emma looked over her shoulder at him. The man waved, obviously motioning Peppino to his table. Instead of waving back, the winemaker scowled, turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction.
Emma knew Jack saw the exchange as well.
“Great way to make enemies,” she mused. “Barry won’t be happy with that performance. I’ve heard from Piers that Barry has been trying to make nice with the Chinese.”
“Enemies?” Jack shrugged in his fatalistic Sicilian way. “At Peppino’s age, who cares?”
By then, they had finished dessert. Z uppa Inglese , an Italian riff on English pudding made with custard and home made ladyfingers. It tasted so much like Emma’s grandmother’s version of the dish, it brought tears to her eyes.
And Emma laughed so hard she almost did cry when the woman at the neighboring table complained that Sergio didn’t list the ubiquitous tiramisu on his menu.
“What kind of Italian restaurant is this?” she pouted. “Imagine,” she said addressing Jack, “no tiramisu .”
As they got up to leave, Jack turned to Emma. “Do you mind stopping by my house before I take you home? I thought you could help me figure out, you know, how to plan this party. I took your advice and invited Bob Monroe and his wife. You know Bob? He runs Monroe Realty.”
Emma nodded. She’d heard of him. “Good call,” she added, somewhat relieved. Bob was young. His presence, and that of his wife, would ease the awkwardness between their daughters.
Jack nodded. “I thought Cara and Mike would enjoy them. My point is I’ve never given a party before. I mean, all by myself. I’m gonna need some help.”
At that moment, Emma noted Jack did look helpless. There was something endearing about it.
“Sure, I’ll stop by,” she said. “If you don’t mind my poking around a bit – like for glasses, dishes, cutlery, placemats. I can lend you stuff if you need it.”
Jack
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