In Pursuit of : The Best Lasagna In Town : Nicola’s
As most stories that begin with a guy sitting alone at a bar, it’s usually about a woman; this time at least… it was about interviewing one. While waiting, I took out my little black book and started scribbling down descriptions of that which was around me.
On the back wall, under soft light and next to rustic wood paneling hung a simple wine rack that while unadorned, looked handcrafted and very old. Sitting on the tall chair at Nicola's in my pressed blue dress-shirt, I, ever chasing a story, leaned forwards on the bar to ask a broad-shouldered man, John, who was standing under the bottles while waiting for guests to enter if he knew anything about it.
“It’s been here longer than I have."
"How long is that?”
“Twenty years."
“What’s kept you here?"
He answered immediately,
"Feels like a home.”
A customer entered, pulling John’s attention so I turned to a man in a smooth black shirt, the sole waiter that night, Robert, who had a moment of respite between checking on patrons, how long he had worked there. Stepping closer to me he replied,
“Ten years, off and on. I come back to help whenever Nicola’s needs it.” Then more seriously he added, “I’ve worked in the industry for twenty years, and I don’t work anywhere that doesn’t stand by what they do.”
Robert pulled himself away to a bustling table just as the restaurant door opened once more and the Mediterranean woman I had been waiting to meet arrived in from the cold. With a warm smile and eyes with the mirth that came with aging well, Nicola met me as I stood and shook my hand,“Do you want something to eat?" She asked politely,
"I was going to order something, what do you recommend?”
Moments later we sat down at a finely made wooden table with a plate that had on it little slices of seasoned bread with tomatoes made a crescent around stacks of, uh, well I wasn't sure at first. Cheese, meat, olives, pickles, sauce, at least: all on top of a thin slice of Genoa Salami.
“What is it called? Do I put it on the bread?"
Nicola’s warm smile hadn’t left her face,
“It’s the Italiano. You eat it like a little taco!”
I brought it up to my mouth as she explained that she learned how to make it from an Italian man, “Sergio DeCesar," who owned the restaurant location before she did, over twenty years ago. That the simple wine rack was his from so long ago-
"Oh my god.” I think I said as she spoke as I bit into the little Italian taco as for a moment I had forgotten I was there to do an interview and was pulled far away from downtown Omaha to rolling Tuscany hills.
Nicola laughed kindly as I tried to finish the bite with dignity.
Ready to continue the interview (eventually), I asked her what she would recommend from the menu.
“The Lasagna, and my lemon cake. I have so many stories about them.”
“I'd love to hear one!" Was what I said, but maybe that was an excuse to let her talk so I could eat another Italiano and slip back to Tuscany.
“Once I had a grandma come to me and apologize because she brought one of my lemon cakes to a party, and people told her it was just the greatest, and instead of telling them it was from Nicola’s she said, “thank you." She came back to the restaurant and told me that people wouldn't stop hounding her to make it again, and she was sorry she lied, but she really wanted to buy another cake!”
“Oh?"
"Mhm, and I told her to bring in her own tray from home and I’d bake it on that to help with her story!” Nicola chuckled and nodded, “I told her she could keep her grandma-cred’.”
We shared a long laugh somewhere, wherever in Italy I had been taken to. I admitted to her over a nearly empty platter that I might be full, (where did all of the food go so quick!?) but that I would love to try a slice of her cake.
“You need to try my lasagna."
"Ah, well I love Italian,” I replied politely, “but, maybe I'm not so in love with lasagna.”
Nicola waved away my concerns and told me she would send me home with a box of it anyway and put in an order for a slice of lemon cake. I did my best to refocus the interview,
“What’s the best part of your restaurant?”
“I’ve met some awesome people! Customers make it fun, and I am so very proud of the quality of my food.” Some of her favorite moments are when men sheepishly tell her, almost in a quiet, secretive way, that her lasagna is better than their mothers.
As she spoke, the lemon cake that she baked earlier that day was brought out and set on the wooden table. With the first bite I understood perfectly how grandmothers would want to claim it for their own.
“Can I buy another slice for my mother?" Did I sound desperate? It really was for my mother!
With a knowing smile, Nicola laughed,
"I’ll send you home with another slice.”
The way to a man’s attention is through his stomach, or so the saying goes – and as such we spoke for hours (during which customers at other tables would wave politely at her). Of the stories she shared, most notably she gives back by hosting performative artists on her own dime, and wishes she had more opportunities to speak to disabled children about how to run a business. Near the end of the night I asked her what feeling she wanted patrons of Nicola’s to go home with.
With her mirthful eyes and warm smile she appeared incredibly humble, “That they are special, and I am grateful for people choosing Nicola’s.”
I don’t remember leaving Tuscany and entering back into downtown Omaha, just that she sent me home with a slice of her lemon cake and a box of her lasagna. On my drive back home, I stopped at my mothers and had the ensuing encounter:
“Hey mom, I brought you a lemon cake from Niccola’s, and some Lasagna."
"Austin, I know you don't like lasagna, have you even tried it?”
I suddenly felt like a child sitting at a dinner table and would have scowled like one if I didn’t have a sense of humor. I tried the lasagna quick and said while leaving,
“Hey mom, I left you a slice of lemon cake.”
And I left with the most delicious Italian lasagna I had ever had, tucked safely under my arm.
Thank you Nicola for the wonderful conversation, your fun stories, and taking me to Italy with your food.
Austin Petak is an aspiring novelist and freelance journalist who loves seeking stories and the quiet passions of the soul. If you are interested in reaching out to me to cover a story, you may find him at austinpetak@gmail.com.
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