Page 13 of A Winter in New York

“I live here now,” I say. “A trainee New Yorker, if there is such a thing.”

“Maybe you can convince Gio to add some new flavors to our range.” She shoots him the side-eye as she speaks.

His expression stiffens and I see his shutters bang down, just as they did in the bookstore on Valentine’s Day.

“What does our logo say?”

Sophia sighs. “Vanilla forever.I know all of that, but what if we never find it, Gio? What then? If we diversify now, we protect ourselves for the future.”

His expression is unmoved. “We’ll find the recipe.”

“And if we don’t?”

“We have time. We will.”

They both look at me, and I hesitate to say anything because this is clearly a well-trodden argument.

“The others agree with me.” Sophia folds her arms across her chest as she speaks, her expression every bit as obstinate as Gio’s. I get the feeling sparks regularly fly between these two.

“Maria too?” he says.

Sophia doesn’t reply. I’m guessing Santo’s wife is of the same opinion as Gio.

“Exactly,” he said. “Case closed.”

“Good luck working with him.” Sophia is speaking to me this time. “He’s a massive pain in the ass.”

He ignores the dig and looks at me. “Let’s go to the kitchens where we can hear ourselves think.”

“I’ve made a list of new flavor ideas, whenever you’re ready,” Sophia says, testy.

Gio doesn’t bite, just turns away.

“This way,” he says.

Sophia chucks me a grin behind his back, her corkscrewdark curls bouncing around her face. I can’t help but like Gio’s spiky little sister. If the other three are anything like her, Belotti family parties must be a riot.

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The GELATERIA kitchens arecavernous, much bigger than the shopfront would have you believe, a curious mix of traditional and modern. Impressive stainless-steel industrial gelato machines line one wall—Gio runs me through how ingredients load into the top to heat and pasteurize and then pass down into the chilled bottom cylinder where they’re churned with air to create gelato. It’s a macro version of my micro process, super-slick and modern, which I somehow hadn’t expected to find here.

“This is Santo’s favorite,” Gio says, leading me over to a much older machine, all ivory enamel curves and polished chrome. “He insists he can taste the difference between gelato made in this from that in the newer machines.”

“Do you really think he can?” I say.

He places an affectionate hand on the side of the old machine. “I wouldn’t bet against him,” he says.

He leads me down to the far end of the kitchen, which, similarly to the store out front, looks untouched by time. A chunky, oblong mahogany workbench dominates the space backed by bespoke cupboards and open shelving. Two long rows of square drawers with pull stops and brass nameplates sit beneath the cupboards, all hand-labeled. The overall effect is of an upscale apothecary, a place where mixologist magic happens. Or gelato magic, as it is here. I’m enchanted.

“This place speaks right to my chef’s soul.” I breathe, running my fingers over the smooth, well-worn workbench.How many generations of gelato makers have stood here, men and women, all working to recreate the same secret recipe? Seeing the history back here has helped me understand why Gio was so stubborn with Sophia earlier. The family have carved out a niche for themselves, they have a reputation to uphold.

“Santo and Maria had their first date right here,” he says, smoothing a hand over the end of the worktable. “Pizza from across the street and gelato for dessert. They do it again every year on their wedding anniversary.” He places both palms flat on the table, his arms braced as he sighs. “It kills him that he can’t remember the date now.”

I half smile, touched by the simple romance of the story.

“Tell me about the gelato,” I say. “Tell me what makes it special.”

“What makes it special?” He half huffs, half smiles, a faraway look gathering in his eyes. “So many things make it special. The taste, of course, but it’s more than that. It’s the connection, the memories, the way taste can trigger emotion.”

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