In 2003, I found myself in London, Ontario, working in a little bistro called the Green Tomato. I was 23 years old, with little experience and a large enough ego that had me believe I was qualified to run a kitchen. And after the chef who had hired me quit, I was suddenly in charge. The restaurant had been struggling for a while, and those would end up being its last few months of operation — but I do hold a few unusual memories from this time in my life: ordering shark from the local fishmonger, a ghostly presence in the dry storage, and meeting Haley Bell (our local waver) for the first time.
This is also when I first met “Charlie.”
It was late afternoon when Charlie came in. Well dressed and purposeful, he spoke to me briefly and in good Italian: “I want you to come and work for me. We are opening Giovanni’s Trattoria, and I need you to run the kitchen.”
Why me? I wasn’t quite clear on why he had even come looking for me, but my ego happily wagged its tail as he whispered a little magic in my ear: “I will pay you well, and I’ll get you a chef coat with your name on it.”
That’s all I needed to hear. Shortly after, I found myself working at Giovanni’s Trattoria.
It was my first experience opening a restaurant, and it was nothing short of exhilarating. Mastering pizza dough, napping on large bags of flour — exhausted from the long days — training new staff, and eventually becoming part of the larger Italian community in London gave me a sense of purpose I had not quite found during my time in Canada.
It was a happy time, where I learned a lot about classical Italian food and the differences between being Italian and being an Italian immigrant. In one of my fondest memories of the time, I even met Chef Pasquale when we sang “O Sole Mio” at the restaurant’s grand opening. (Chef Pasquale, along with Yan from Wok with Yan, could be considered the original celebrity chefs.)
Charlie and I spent a lot of time together, working tirelessly as we got the place set up for opening. I welcomed his fatherly presence and guidance at a time guidance was very much needed. It was our common culture that created an (assumed) sense of trust — that would be a mistake I would not repeat again.
Late at night, after long days of work, Charlie would often bring me to see Renato, who ran a strange shop tucked away in the back of an industrial area, with no sign at its front door. The story goes that Renato had travelled from Italy with his espresso machine, so I (reluctantly) accepted an espresso during my first visit (in my defence, it was shortly past 11 p.m.). As I tasted Renato’s coffee — so buttery and rich — it was almost like I had never had espresso before. When I came back to it, I simply had to ask for a second one. People were playing cards, smoking cigarettes and drinking, while we chatted till the early hours of the day.
I didn’t really see Giovanni very much, but it was clear, even to my inexpert eyes, that the guy was in charge. He was the boss with the gold chain and the shirt always generously open, and he easily embodied every single stereotype your mind could conjure. A man of few words, I only spoke to him if I was addressed first, and I learned quickly to stick to that rule.
His wife, Concetta, was both beautiful and incredibly quiet. Always present, always in the background, and always dressed in black, she had kind eyes and gentle manners. There was a sadness to her presence — a constant air of mourning that added to the beauty of her character. One day, she walked into the kitchen while I was making tiramisu. After observing me for a while, she grabbed my wrist to stop me, making eye contact for just a moment. Without wasting words, she showed me how to do a proper tiramisu, and I owe her to this day the simple recipe we use at the restaurant.
Charlie — whose real name was Carlo Giuliani — adored being the centre of attention and regarded himself as a talented singer. Because of this passion, the dining room had a small stage placed in the middle of it with a karaoke machine, and he would spend the later parts of most evenings singing old Italian songs, scaring lingering guests away. Sometimes he would invite me — or rather, force me — to get up on stage and sing with him. He would insist on singing a few seconds after me to create an effect he seemed to particularly love.
To this day, despite being somewhat shy, I’m happy to get up on stage and bust out a little Sinatra.
And while things felt, at times, strange, I was still just a young man trying to figure out the world — so I didn’t give it too much weight.
For example, if I needed money, I would simply ask Charlie, and he would pull out a large bundle of cash. Charlie would also often come into the kitchen boasting a full reservation book for the evening.
“Andiamo,” he would say, trying to fire us up — “Let’s go” — but often the numbers never really added up. If we expected 90 guests, we would barely get half of that. Not once did the words “money laundering” come to mind, but that is definitely what they were doing.
Eventually, things went from strange to dark.
Working on the line, Charlie would sometimes place a dish on the stove and turn the burner on to make the side of the dish nuclear hot. He would then place it on the pass in the kitchen to be picked up by one of the servers.
“Let those dogs burn in hell,” he would whisper in my ear.
What he really meant was that you were either Italian or not — I finally clued in to why I got the job.
Sometimes in the mornings, I liked to snoop around. I would find the remnants of the previous night’s card games: the smell of cigarettes still lingering in the air, half-finished glasses of booze, and papers with all the wagers from the previous evening. Thousands of dollars were lost and won each night, and that movement of money would eventually catch the attention of those who ran the town — the Hells Angels.
They did not like one bit what was going on at Giovanni’s Trattoria.
After a first warning went unheeded (one single punch in Giovanni’s face as he walked up the few steps into the restaurant), things escalated quickly. As it turned out, the new hire had been sent by the Hells Angels to keep an eye on the place. He would eventually leave the back gate open on one of those evenings when cards were being played. A visit by six large individuals turned the place upside down.
One day, I found Charlie at the bar speaking on the phone in Italian.
“Si, signora. È qua,” he said, and I instinctively froze.
“It’s your mom,” he said.
I hadn’t talked to my mom in over six months — there just wasn’t much I wanted to share with her, but she had somehow managed to track me down from the other side of the world. That’s when I realized things had gone too far.
That same evening, I threw my apron and coat on the ground and I lost my shit on Charlie, yelling everything I thought of him right to his face. I never ended up getting that coat with my name on it, but I did walk downstairs and fill my bag with all the wine and cheese I could get my hands on. They all knew what I was doing — I’m sure they could hear the sound of wine bottles hitting each other in my pack as I walked out — but they couldn’t be bothered. They just didn’t care.
Three months after that theatrical exit, Giovanni would be found dead in his apartment above the restaurant. The investigation would be closed shortly after as a suicide.
It was less than a year since Giovanni’s Trattoria’s grand opening.
Moral of the story: think twice before working for an Italian.