The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (23 page)

When I got back to my cottage at the end of the day, I was still thinking about the confrontation with my brother. And there was only one thing that would make me feel better: the ocean. I threw on my shorts and headed outside. The beach at six o’clock was my
favorite time. Day-trippers had long gone home, and the renters were usually packing up their things. Here and there a few lone couples, mostly older year-rounders, were sitting with towels wrapped around their legs, their noses in paperbacks, maybe one of them even a Bernardo Vitali mystery.

I dragged my beach chair close to the water’s edge, stretched my legs out in front of me, and tipped my head back to soak up the last rays of sun. And to think. Remembering my conversation with Tim about Kate and Dr. C., I thought about the ties of family. How they bound us and comforted us but sometimes chafed. When I looked in the mirror, I saw an independent woman with the first faint lines of age marking her face. But inside I was still Danny’s kid sister and Frank and Nic’s little girl. Not to mention Nonna’s headstrong granddaughter. Well, Cal had said she and I were alike. I shook my head. How can you care about people so much and yet want to escape them at the same time?

I loved that we were all together at the restaurant this morning, celebrating the baby, but I hated the friction with my brother.
He’s right to be angry,
the voice of my conscience said.
He should have been the first person to know
. I trailed my fingers in the wet sand, suddenly aware of a shadow hovering over me. A literal one. When I opened my eyes, my brother was standing next to my chair.

“Thought I’d find you down here,” he said, and plopped down next to my chair. In a T-shirt, shorts,
and flip-flops, he was Brother Danny, as opposed to Cop Danny, which came as a relief.

“You know me well, brother.” I shaded my eyes and looked into his face. “You still mad at me?”

He grinned and shook his head. “I’m not allowed to be.” He scooped handfuls of wet sand, piling them idly while he spoke. “The minute we got home, my wife ripped me a new one. Said if I should be mad at anybody, it should be her, not you.”

I put my hand on his arm. “You had a right to be mad.”

He shook his head, still scooping sand. “No. I should’ve let you explain. She told me how it happened. That you caught her throwing up.”

“You have no idea how I nagged her to tell you, Danny.”

“Oh, I think I do. Anyway, I’m in no mood to be mad at anybody.” His face brightened, his grin growing wider. “Do you believe I’m gonna be a father?”

I shook my head. “Not really. But it’s Frank as a grandfather that’s really got my head spinning. He’s probably out buying a whole bunch of lottery tickets and laying bets on Bambino right now. And setting up a pool on the birthdate and the baby’s weight.”

Danny threw back his head and laughed; it was a sound that did my heart good. “So, you’re back home, I assume,” I said.

He nodded. “Where I belong. And where I plan to stay. From here on out, we work out our problems like grown-ups.”

“That’s good to hear. And anytime you guys need time alone, be sure to call Aunt Victoria to babysit.”

“I’m holdin’ you to that,” he said, pointing a finger at me. He paused, still piling sand. “Hey, Vic?” he asked. “Were you ever so happy that you felt like you didn’t deserve it?”

“Hell, no!” I said. “I deserve every millisecond of happiness that comes my way. I figure I earned it.”

“Well, that’s true.” Danny said. “And I want you to be happy.”

“Funny. You’re the second man who’s said that to me of late.”

“Tim?” he asked without looking at me.

“The very one.” I cupped some wet sand and dribbled it on top of Danny’s pile.

“Has it been okay working with him?”

“It’s been fine. You know he’s seeing somebody, right?”

He nodded. “The redhead?”

“Yup. She’s actually nice, despite her unfortunate hair color.”

“Maybe.” His face tightened. “But are you sure—?”

I held up my hand to stave off the rest of the question. “Yes, I’m sure. Whatever you were going to ask me, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” He grinned again, his face taking on a dreamy look. “A baby,” he said, shaking his head. “Still gettin’ my mind around it.”

“
La famiglia
,” I said softly.

“
La famiglia
,” he agreed.

I squinted into my brother’s face; his eyes were
suspiciously bright. “Hey, Mr. Tough Guy, is that a tear I see?”

He stood up, brushing the sand from his hands. “Nah. Sun’s in my eyes.” He gripped my shoulder and squeezed. “Later, sis.”

“Later, bro,” I said to his retreating back, and wiped away a small tear of my own.

There are many variations on Italian Wedding Soup, but the one element they all share is
polpetti
,
or tiny, flavorful meatballs. The meatball recipe here is based upon my mom’s, and one I have been using my whole adult life—the secret is the blend of ground meats. (If you can’t find the meat blend prepackaged at your grocery store, ask the butcher to prepare it for you.) While many self-respecting Italians wouldn’t dream of mixing meatballs with anything but their own two hands, I prefer the food processor for this messy job. If you don’t have homemade chicken stock on hand, a good quality prepared stock is fine for the soup. If escarole is not to your taste, use spinach, Swiss chard, or any other green you like. This recipe makes a large batch. I generally freeze half the meatballs and cut the soup recipe in half, but if you have a big family, go for it.

Nonna’s Famous Italian Wedding Soup

For the meatballs:

1-2 small cloves garlic, according to taste

¹⁄³ cup chopped fresh parsley leaves

¹
/
₂
pound ground beef

¹
/
₂
pound ground pork

¹
/
₂
pound ground veal

¹
/
₂
cup flavored Italian bread crumbs

¹
/
₂
cup freshly grated Pecorino Romano cheese

¹
/
₄
cup milk

1 large egg, lightly beaten

1 teaspoon salt

¹
/
₂
teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

For the soup:

2 tablespoons good-quality olive oil

1 cup finely chopped yellow onion

1 cup diced carrots (3 carrots), cut into
¹
/
₄
inch pieces

³
/
₄
cup diced celery (2 stalks), cut into
¹
/
₄
inch pieces

¹
/
₂
cup dry white wine

16 cups homemade chicken stock or four 32-ounce containers of good-quality prepared broth

2 cups small pasta, such as orzo or ditalini

2 ounces escarole, washed well and torn into bite-sized pieces

1. Preheat the oven to 350° degrees F.

2. With the food processor running, drop the peeled garlic cloves and parsley through the feed tube, and process until finely minced. Scrape down the processor. To the parsley-and-garlic mixture add the ground meats, bread crumbs, cheese, milk, egg, salt, and pepper. Pulse until all ingredients are well combined, scraping down the bowl once. With a melon baller or small cookie scoop, drop meatballs of about one inch in diameter onto a sheet pan lined with parchment paper. (You should have about 60 meatballs. Roll them in your palms to smooth them, if you wish, but they don’t have to be perfect.) Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until cooked through and lightly browned. Set aside.

3. In the meantime, make the soup by heating the olive oil over medium-low heat in a large heavy-bottomed soup pot. Add the onion, carrots, and celery and sauté until softened, 5 to 6 minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir the wine into the vegetables; add the chicken stock and bring to a boil. Add the pasta to the simmering broth and cook for 6 to 8 minutes, until the pasta is tender. Add the meatballs to the soup and simmer for 1 minute. Taste, and add salt and pepper as needed. Stir in the escarole and cook for 1 to 2 minutes, until it is just wilted. Ladle into soup bowls and sprinkle each serving with extra grated cheese.

Even Vic knows that the secret to a good ragu (tomato sauce with meat) is a long, slow simmer, either on top of the stove or slow-cooked in the oven. This recipe makes a deeply flavored sauce, even with the cheapest cuts of beef. It freezes well, and is best served over sturdy pastas such as rigatoni.

Rosie’s Easy Beef Ragu

1 to 1
¹
/
₂
lbs. beef chuck, cut into large cubes (or precut beef for stew)

2 tablespoons olive oil

Salt and pepper to taste

2–3 large cloves garlic, roughly chopped

2 tablespoons tomato paste

¹
/
₄
cup full-bodied red wine

1 28-ounce can imported chopped tomatoes

1 28-ounce can imported strained tomatoes or tomato puree

2–3 teaspoons salt

6–8 large basil leaves, snipped into small pieces

2 tablespoons fresh parsley, roughly chopped (frozen herbs may be substituted for fresh)

1. Press cubed beef dry with paper towels, then put into a large bowl with the olive oil and mix until all the meat is coated. Lightly season with salt and pepper.

2. Coat a heavy-bottomed 4-quart pan with cooking spray. Brown the beef in batches over medium-high heat and set aside. Pour off excess fat, if you wish.

3. Lower the heat to medium, and cook the garlic quickly in beef fat. Add the tomato paste and red wine and deglaze pan. Stir thoroughly to pick up all the browned bits. When the mixture reaches a high simmer, add tomatoes, salt and pepper, and fresh herbs.

4. Put the meat and any juices back into the pot. Bring sauce to a slow boil, about 10 minutes.

5. Reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer the sauce on the lowest heat for 2
¹
/
₂
to 3 hours, or until the beef is fork tender. Stir occasionally. (For oven cooking, set the temperature to 275° F. Make sure you use an oven-proof pot, and let the sauce come to a boil on top of the stove first. Set on the middle rack in the oven for 2
¹
/
₂
to 3 hours. Check the sauce once per hour during cooking to stir and add liquid as needed.)

Though Nonna makes these for a wedding, in our house this cookie is a Christmas staple. (The smell when they are cooking is heavenly!) My own grandmother, Maria Genova, made these regularly, and my aunt Marie Genova Abate provided the recipe here. For some, anise is an acquired taste, so if you don’t like that licorice flavor, vanilla or almond extract may be substituted. This recipe makes about three dozen cookies.

Nonna’s Ricotta Cookies

2 cups flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

¹
/
₄
teaspoon salt

1 cup sugar

¹
/
₂
cup butter (do not substitute)

2 eggs

1–2 teaspoons of anise extract

1 cup fresh ricotta cheese

For topping:

confectioner’s sugar

nonpareils or colored sugars

1. Preheat the oven to 350° F. Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt in a bowl and set aside.

2. In a larger bowl or stand mixer, cream the butter and sugar until fluffy. Add the eggs and anise extract.

3. Add the dry ingredients and ricotta alternately to the butter mixture until well blended.

4. Drop by rounded teaspoonfuls, two inches apart, on parchment-covered cookie sheets, and bake for 10 to 12 minutes. Do not overbake; the bottoms should be a light golden brown.

5. Let cool, and top with confectioner’s sugar glaze and nonpareils or colored
sugars.

Read on for a sneak peek at the next Italian Kitchen Mystery,

A Dish Best Served Cold

Coming in fall 2015 from Obsidian.

A
mingled blast of garlic and alcohol hit me as soon as I opened the back door. The reek was emanating from Pietro Petrocelli, known colloquially as “Stinky Pete.” Naturally, I never called him that to his face (or in front of my grandmother, who knows him from the old country). Pete listed to one side, then the other, blinking his bloodshot eyes and grinning at me with his nearly toothless mouth. Recoiling from the stench of unwashed skin and lack of dental hygiene, I took two steps back into the restaurant kitchen.

“Uh, hi, Pete. Nonna’s not here at the moment.” I started to close the door, but Pete, who was pretty quick for a drunk, held it fast.

“It’s
La Signorina Scrittrice,
” he slurred. “The Lady Writer. How you do,
signorina
?” He stuck his unshaven face inside the door opening, treating me to another whiff of garlic breath. “Is your papa here?”

“No,” I said firmly. My dad, Frank, who had a soft spot for Pete, would sometimes give him a glass of homemade wine, but only when my grandmother wasn’t
around. Nonna would feed Pete if he was hungry, but she drew the line at liquor.

“Hokay,” he said with a sigh. “So, maybe, Lady Writer, could you do an old man a favor?”

“Not if it involves wine.” I gripped the side of the door, trying unsuccessfully to push it closed.

“C’mon,
signorina
. I am parched in the heat.” He pressed his free hand against his chest. “I have a great thirst.”

“I’ll bet you do,” I said. “You can have some water. And if you’re hungry, I’ll give you a panini. But that’s it. And then you have to go.”

He finally let go of the door and shook his head. “It is not for water that I have the thirst. But I will take, how you say, a ‘suh-nack.’”

“One ‘suh-nack’ coming up. But you have to wait there, okay?” I said, closing the door. I grabbed a roll, threw on some salami and cheese, and wrapped the sandwich in a paper towel.

When I handed it to him, Pete stuck the sandwich into the pocket of his tattered shirt and winked at me with one droopy eye. “For later,” he whispered. Taking advantage of the open door, he pushed his head inside again; I tried very hard not to inhale as he spoke. “If you give me
il vino
, I can tell you stories. For your books.” He raised his hand in a scribbling motion to illustrate.

“I can’t, Pete. It’s not good for you. Nonna won’t let me.”

“Oh, your grandmother, she is a saint,” he said, clapping his palms together as though in prayer.

“Uh huh.”
She’s a saint, all right.
“You need to go, Pete.” I shoved harder against the door.

He tapped the side of his head. “Me, I know t’ings. Many t’ings I could tell you for your murder books.”

“I’m sure you could, but you really have to go now.”

Pete nodded, pulled his head back from the doorway, and patted his breast pocket. “Thank you,
signorina
. And remember what I said,” he called as he stumbled off. “I have stories to tell.”

Stories involving the grape, no doubt, but probably little I could use for my “murder books.” I bolted the door behind me and grabbed a handful of basil from the refrigerator, stuck my nose in it, and sniffed deeply.

“Victoria,” my grandmother called out sharply, “what are you doing to that basil?”

She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face—her usual pose when greeting me.

“What does it look like? I’m clearing my nasal passages. Pete was here.”

“That’s Mr. Petrocelli to you. Have some respect.”

“Ugh, Nonna, he’s disgusting. He came around hoping Daddy was here to give him wine.”

She shook her head and made a
tsk
ing sound. “A terrible affliction. Pietro was once a cabinetmaker, a craftsman. And a man like that turns to drink. Such a shame.”

“Why are you nice to him? Why do you even let him come around?” I asked, giving the basil a quick rinse at the sink.

“Back in Naples, he knew your grandfather.” At the
mention of her late husband, Nonna crossed herself and looked at me expectantly.

“May God rest his soul,” I said quickly.

She nodded her approval and resumed her story. “Pietro’s older brother, Alfonso, was also close to your grandpa’s
fratello
, your great-uncle, Zio Roberto. But such troublemakers, those two.” She shook her head again. “Got in with criminals. Your grandfather’s family never talked about Roberto.”

I put the basil away and gave my grandmother my full attention. A long-lost great-uncle who “got in with criminals” and was a forbidden subject for the Rienzi family? This was rich material for my novel, a historical I was writing based on my family. I grabbed my waitress pad and a pen from the pocket of my apron; they would have to do in lieu of my computer.

“What happened to him?” I casually set the pad down on the counter, trying to keep it out of her sight. If she thought I was writing instead of prepping vegetables for lunch, I’d be in for it. I set the bin of carrots on the counter for effect.

“He died in the old country. No one was sure how.” Nonna, who’d been scrubbing vigorously at the sink, dried her hands on a towel and tied an apron around her waist. “Have you chopped the onions and garlic?” she called over her shoulder.

“Uh huh.” I scribbled away in secret on the other side of the carrot bin. “So, did he just disappear? I mean, did they have a funeral for him? Is there a death certificate?”

She pinched her fingers and shook her hand in the classic Italian gesture. For as often as I’d seen it, I was
surprised her hands weren’t frozen in that position. “What are you, the police?” she asked. “Why all these questions?”

“I want to know about our history.”

“Well, I want to know about the vegetables. Bring me that onion and garlic so I can start the sauce.”

I brought her the open containers from the refrigerator, my eyes tearing up at the smell. I was still learning about cooking, but I knew the garlic and onion had to be kept in separate containers. You have to start with the onions, as they take longer to cook; garlic burns if you’re not careful, so that gets added later. A perfectly sautéed onion-and-garlic mixture formed the basis of most of the Casa Lido’s famous sauces. “Would you tell me more about Zio Roberto?” I asked.

“I will if you put that pen away and clean those carrots like you’re supposed to.”

I sighed and took a vegetable scraper from the drawer. As my brother Danny once observed about our nonna:
She don’t miss a trick
. “Yes, Nonna,” I said.

I watched her pour a generous helping of extra-virgin olive oil into the bottom of our biggest stockpot, heard the sizzle as the onions hit the hot oil. She talked while she stirred. “Your grandpa Giuseppe’s mother was married very young and had Roberto right away. But then for many years, she had trouble having babies,” Nonna explained. “Your grandfather was what we used to call a ‘late life’ baby. His mama must have been forty when she had him.”

“So Grandpa and Zio Roberto had a big gap between them?”

“
Sì
. Maybe fourteen, fifteen years. Your grandfather barely remembered him. All he knew was that Roberto got involved with the wrong people and died back in Italy. End of story.” She stopped stirring long enough to scrutinize the chopped garlic. “Did you take out all the sprouts?”

My grandmother was obsessive about garlic preparation. “Yes,” I said, holding up my hands. “And I have the smelly fingers to prove it.”

“Part of the job,” she said shortly. “Use lemon juice.”

“Speaking of garlic,” I said, “Stink...uh, Mr. Petrocelli said that he ‘knows things’ that I could use in my books. Do you think he might have meant information about his brother and Zio Roberto?”

“Who knows?” She lifted one broad shoulder in a shrug. “He’s an old man, and old men like to talk and make themselves important. He probably just repeats the same stories to anyone who will listen.” She paused. “I suppose they could be about Alfonso. But he turned out bad, and, may God forgive me, so did your Zio Roberto.”

“Yeah, you said that.”
But bad in what way?
Could they have been mafiosi back in Italy? I imagined the two young men in Naples, dressed in suspenders and flat caps, looking like extras from
The
Godfather: Part II
. Though my book wasn’t a
Godfather
-type story, I couldn’t help being curious. “So Grandpa’s brother died young. What happened to Alfonso?”

“Last I heard he had emigrated here. But that was many years ago.” She shook her wooden spoon at me. “I thought you wanted to know about your great-uncle Roberto.”

“I do.” I lifted a carrot high in my right hand, while my left crawled across the counter toward my pen and pad. But before I could grab either, my grandmother’s words assailed my ears.

“You pick up that pen, missy, and I shut my mouth.”

I let out a loud huff, prompting my grandmother to shoot me a look that froze my blood. “Okay,” I said, resigned to the inevitable. “No pen. So, I’m supposed to just remember it all,” I muttered.

“You’re
supposed
to be working. Come to think of it, I have more important things to talk to you about than dead relatives. We have the anniversary celebration to think about.”

I stifled a sigh. Nonna was obsessed with the Casa Lido’s upcoming anniversary; it was clear I’d get no more family history out of her today. I briefly considered talking to Stinky Pete to find out what he actually knew about my grandfather’s mysterious brother. Grimacing at the thought of a one-on-one with the odiferous Signor Petrocelli, I told myself I didn’t have much time for writing anyway.

It was August, and we were coming to the end of a busy season, one which would be capped off by a celebration of the Casa Lido’s seventieth anniversary and the last rush of Labor Day weekend. They were likely to be the restaurant’s most profitable events of the year, and we were counting on that revenue to make up for our slow start in the spring. (A dead body in the tomato garden tends to keep the customers away.) As I thought about the events of the last weeks, it struck me that I’d been back in New Jersey for nearly three months—
almost a whole summer season. In that time I’d gotten myself involved with two men
and
two murders. That was some crazy arithmetic, even for me.

My thoughts were interrupted by a loud rapping noise and I jumped a mile. “I’m talking to you, Victoria,” my grandmother said, banging her wooden spoon on the countertop. “Stop daydreaming. Hurry and finish those carrots; then bring me four jars of tomatoes from the pantry. And when you’ve finished that, you can write down the menu for the party as I dictate. It will be summer dishes—antipasto and bruschetta, cold salads, and maybe some shrimp...”

She was off and running. And in all the bustle of preparation for the dinner service and the plans for the Casa Lido’s big day, Zio Roberto, his friend Alfonso, and Stinky Pete were quickly forgotten. Which turned out to be a mistake, because Stinky Pete was right: He
did
have a story to tell—one that nobody ever got a chance to
hear.