A young girl watches her grandmother roll pasta in a kitchen the size of a closet. There’s no recipe book. There’s no measuring cup. There’s only instinct, olive oil, and the understanding that food is how you tell people you love them without making a whole thing about it.
That girl grew up to be Sophia Petrillo. She moved to Brooklyn. Then to Miami. She outlived two husbands, one fire, and the entire state of Florida’s understanding of what garlic is supposed to taste like.
Now she caters your events. Not because she needs the money. Because your food is terrible and somebody had to say it.
“Your heart’s in the right place, Rose, but I don’t know where the hell your brain is.”
Minimum 20 guests. If your party is smaller, invite more people. You probably owe some favors anyway.
Tell me about your event. I’ll tell you what you’re eating. You don’t get a say. That’s why you hired me.