“Madonna, any clam considers himself honored to be part of Franconi’s linguini. A bit smaller there. Yes.” Satisfied, he passed her an onion. “Chopped, not too fine.” Again, he demonstrated, but this time Juliet felt more at home. Accepting the knife, she hacked again until the onion was in pieces and her eyes were streaming.

“I hate to cook,” she muttered but Carlo only pushed a clove of garlic at her.

“This is chopped very fine. Its essence is what we need, not so much texture.” He stood over her shoulder, watching until he approved. “You’ve good hands, Juliet. Now here, melt the butter.”

Following instructions, she cooked the onion and garlic in the simmering butter, stirring until Carlo pronounced it ready.

“Now, it’s tender, you see. We add just a bit of flour.” He held her hand to direct it as she stirred it in. “So it thickens. We add the clams. Gently,” he warned before she could dump them in. “We don’t want them bruised. Ah…” He nodded with approval. “Spice,” he told her. “It’s the secret and the strength.”

Bending over her, he showed her how to take a pinch of this, a touch of that and create. As the scent became more pleasing, her confidence grew. She’d never remember the amounts or the ingredients, but found it didn’t matter.

“How about that?” she asked, pointing to a few sprigs of parsley.

“No, that comes just at the end. We don’t want to drown it. Turn the heat down, just a little more. There.” Satisfied, he nodded. “The cover goes on snug, then you let it simmer while the spices wake up.”

Juliet wiped the back of her hand over her damp brow. “Carlo, you talk about the sauce as though it lived and breathed.”

“My sauces do,” he said simply. “While this simmers, you grate the cheese.” He picked up a hunk and with his eyes closed, sniffed. “Squisito.”

He had her grate and stir while the rest of the kitchen staff worked around them. Juliet thought of her mother’s kitchen with its tidy counters and homey smells. She’d never seen anything like this. It certainly wasn’t quiet. Pans were dropped, people and dishes were cursed, and fast was the order of the day. Busboys hustled in and out, weighed down with trays, waiters and waitresses breezed through demanding their orders. While she watched wide-eyed, Carlo ignored. It was time to create his pasta.

Unless it was already cooked and in a meal, Juliet thought of pasta as something you got off the shelf in a cardboard box. She learned differently, after her hands were white to the wrists with flour. He had her measure and knead and roll and spread until her elbows creaked. It was nothing like the five-minute throw-it-together kind she was used to.