Enchanted pen

EPISODE 4 — “APERITIVO”

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NAINA

Day 5. Milan.

That is the only thing going around in my head. I feel like I have been here long enough to get into the rhythm of the restaurant but at the same time I feel it’s not enough.

I arrive by 5. Leave by 11. Eating and standing at the pass because honestly sitting down feels like slowing down. I am trying my best to not think about the situation much and by that I mean get into a level of worry where I’m not able to execute a solution.

Currently I’m dealing with two problems. One — the menu negotiation going on with Papa. Two — after opening the accounts of Ghar I feel like we need income fast and right now with the current situation it isn’t fast enough.

I wonder what is tougher — dealing with Papa on the menu or generating fast income because things aren’t moving quickly enough at the restaurant. Because when it comes to discussing with Papa it seems like a nightmare. For him discussion is moving three centimetres forward from yesterday and if I have to solve issues in thirty days that seems impossible at this pace.

While I was busy thinking about all of this and staring at my laptop my phone rang.

Simone.

It had been a while since we spoke.

We had been best friends ever since I can remember. She came into the office at 9 AM with two coffees and a pastry bag. There was no knock — but then again nobody who lives two streets away from Ghar ever knocks.

She had a grin on her face and just by that I knew it was going to be a daunting conversation.

SIMONE
“You’re back.”

NAINA
“I’ve been back five days.”

SIMONE
“I was giving you time to settle.”

NAINA
“You called me four times on day one.”

SIMONE
“I was checking you’d landed safely.”

NAINA
“All four times.”

SIMONE
“Planes are dangerous.”

She put the coffees down, kissed me on both cheeks the way she’s done since we were twelve, looked at the laptop screen, then at me, then at the screen, then at me again.

SIMONE
“You look terrible.”

NAINA
“Thank you.”

SIMONE
“Not terrible terrible. Tired terrible. There’s a difference.”

NAINA
“I’ve been awake since five.”

SIMONE
“Again?”

NAINA
“Still.”

The next moment she opened the pastry bag without hesitation, looked straight into my eyes and spoke.

SIMONE
“Talk.”

Before I knew it I spilled everything. Not about the investor or the full weight of the finances — just the shape of it. The thing that brought me here from London in an emergency.

Thirty days. Menu negotiations. Lease. Revenue gap.

While I talked I watched how intently she was listening. Both hands around her coffee cup. Still in a way that Simone almost never is. Her expression showed how much she’d missed this — and it made me realise how much I’d missed her. Six years is a long time to go without the person who knew you before you knew yourself.

When I finished she was quiet for exactly four seconds.

Then —

SIMONE
“Aperitivo.”

NAINA
“What.”

SIMONE
“Indian aperitivo. Ghar does the six to eight slot. Small fusion plates, Indian cocktails, the Navigli crowd.”

NAINA
“That’s—”

SIMONE
“The best idea you’ve heard this week.”

NAINA
“I was going to say that’s what I was already thinking.”

SIMONE
“Then we agree. Wonderful. I’ll handle the Instagram.”

NAINA
“Simone—”

SIMONE
“I have forty-seven thousand followers and three contacts at food accounts with over a hundred thousand each. You need visibility by Friday. It’s Wednesday. Let me work.”

I looked at her.

NAINA
“You’ve already planned this.”

SIMONE
“I planned this when you called me from London on Thursday.”

NAINA
“That was the day I booked the flight.”

SIMONE
“I know. I’ve been waiting five days for you to ask.”

——

The aperitivo idea was good.

The aperitivo idea required Papa’s kitchen.

Papa’s kitchen required Papa’s agreement.

Which meant I had to have a conversation I had been strategically avoiding since day one.

I found him at the pass at noon — his territory, which I chose deliberately because Papa is always slightly more reasonable when he’s cooking. Something about the act of it settles him. Like his hands being busy gives his brain permission to be open.

Or maybe I just needed the advantage.

NAINA
“I want to try an aperitivo slot.”

He didn’t look up from what he was plating.

DEV
“Aperitivo.”

NAINA
“Six to eight. Small plates. Indian-spiced cocktails. The Navigli crowd.”

DEV
“This is not an aperitivo bar.”

NAINA
“It could be for two hours.”

DEV
“Ghar is a restaurant.”

NAINA
“Ghar is a restaurant that needs revenue by the end of the week.”

Papa put down the spoon.

Looked at me.

The specific look that meant he was deciding between his opinion and my reality and finding them uncomfortably close together.

DEV
“What kind of cocktails.”

Progress.

NAINA
“Masala Aperol spritz. Cardamom gin and tonic. Tamarind margarita.”

DEV
“Tamarind margarita.”

NAINA
“It’s going to be the most photographed thing on the Navigli.”

DEV
“That’s not a recommendation.”

NAINA
“In 2025 Milan it absolutely is.”

Papa picked up the spoon again.

Went back to plating.

Long silence.

The kitchen moved around us — the specific rhythm of a lunch prep that has been the same for twenty-three years.

DEV
“What are the small plates.”

NAINA
“Dal makhani arancini. Chaat bruschetta. Keema crostini.”

DEV
“Dal makhani arancini.”

NAINA
“Yes.”

DEV
“That’s—”

NAINA
“Italian and Indian in one bite. Which is exactly what this restaurant has always been.”

Papa was quiet for a long moment.

The kind of quiet that means something is being considered rather than dismissed.

DEV
“Friday.”

NAINA
“Friday.”

DEV
“If nobody comes—”

NAINA
“People will come.”

DEV
“If nobody comes we don’t do it again.”

NAINA
“Deal.”

He nodded once.

Went back to plating.

DEV (quietly, to himself)
“Dal makhani arancini.”

The way he said it — not to me, just into the kitchen — sounded less like disagreement and more like he was tasting it in his head.

I took that as a win.

——

What followed was forty-eight hours of Simone doing what Simone does best.

I don’t fully understand the mechanics of it.

I understand the results.

By Thursday evening Ghar’s Instagram had gained three hundred new followers.

By Friday morning there was a story repost from a Milanese food account with eighty-two thousand followers that Simone sent me with zero context and maximum smugness.

SIMONE (text)
I told you.

NAINA (text)
You were right.

SIMONE (text)
I need that framed.

I put my phone down.

Picked it up again.

Twenty-five days.

Maybe.

——

Thursday night.

The restaurant closed. Everyone gone.

I was at the pass alone doing what I always do when I can’t sleep — which is cook something that isn’t for anyone, just for the sake of having my hands doing what they know.

The notebook was open beside me.

I was working on the dish again.

The base was closer now.

The cardamom was right.

The preserved lemon was right.

Something else was missing that I couldn’t name yet.

I closed the notebook.

Looked at the bar setup for tomorrow.

The slate boards.

The glasses lined up.

Papa’s idea — the slate boards — offered without being asked.

I thought about that.

About a man who spent twenty-three years being asked for nothing and giving everything anyway.

About a daughter who left and spent six years fixing other people’s kitchens because she couldn’t face her own.

Twenty-four hours.

Let’s see what we’re made of.

——

Closing lines:

Day five.

The aperitivo pitch took eleven minutes.

Papa said dal makhani arancini to himself in the kitchen like he was tasting it in his head.

Simone planned all of this on the day I booked my flight.

I’ve been surrounded by people who were already ready.

I just had to catch up.

Twenty-four hours.

Friday.

END OF EPISODE 4.