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Act 1: Becoming a Chef
Night had fallen over America’s house. Romano sat on the rooftop, shoulders tense, jaw tight. He was muttering curses in Italian under his breath, as if speaking them could purge some invisible weight from his chest.
It wasn’t about America tonight. Or maybe it was, in the way everything seemed to be. Every frustration, every unfairness, every small indignity he’d carried from home, from life, from the world, converged into one simmering ball of irritation. He spat out another string of Italian words, loud enough to pierce the quiet of the night.
“Vaffanculo America you stronzo!” He hissed, voice sharp and frustrated.
A shadow flickered at the window. America’s voice rang out, bright and alive, cutting through Romano’s muttering.
A figure moved at the window, and America’s voice carried up, exasperated but not annoyed.
“Hey! If you’re gonna insult me, at least do it where I can’t hear you!”
Romano froze mid-step, nostrils flaring. His instinctive reaction was immediate: a sharp glare toward the window, teeth gritted. It wasn’t even directed specifically at America; it was life, it was luck, it was circumstance. It was every unfair thing he’d ever been handed, expressed in sharp Italian syllables.
Then America did something that stopped him in his tracks: he climbed. Onto the roof, as though unbothered by Romano’s sharp glare or flaring nostrils. He sat a few inches away, arms crossed loosely, waiting.
“If you hate it here so much.” America said, blunt, simple, the words strange in their sincerity. “Why don’t you just go home?“
The word home struck harder than any insult ever could. Romano froze, shoulders stiffening, a silent tremor running through him.
He turned away, arms crossing tightly against his chest. The anger drained from him, replaced by something more bitter, more corrosive. He chewed the inside of his cheek before letting the words spill out, voice tight with frustration.
“Even if I go home and go back to farming, I’ll be forced to sell my produce for cheap.” He muttered, voice low but sharp. “Everyone else around me has modernized their agricultural processes… produces huge amounts… and my stupid brother… he’s there, doing… things. How can I put it…? Hard to stand it there. It pisses me off ‘cause he’s actually good at stuff… unlike me, dammit…“
His fists tightened against his sides. The bitterness seeped through every syllable. It wasn’t just envy. It was rage at the unfairness of being expected to remain small, quiet, unnoticed, producing what others could exploit without question while the world moved forward around him.
America listened, silent, brow raised slightly, but not interrupting. When Romano finished, America simply said:
“Huh. Sounds like you’ve got it pretty rough.”
Romano spun his head, eyes blazing.
“Hey! It’s not like I want your shitty sympathy or anything! As if you could understand how I feel, goddammit!” His voice cracked halfway through, but he didn’t care. Pride demanded he keep it loud, keep it sharp.
America didn’t flinch. Instead, he laughed—big, unrestrained, utterly sincere.
“You’re right! I don’t get it at all! I’m the hero at everything I do!”
Romano’s face twisted in outrage.
“I seriously fucking hate you, asshole!”
Romano’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists against the rooftop gravel as he leaned forward, muttering curses under his breath. Then he snapped his head up, turning sharply toward America, voice low and dangerous.
“Just forget it. I hate you anyway, shit-wit. I’m gonna search your house for humiliating secrets and blackmail you with them.”
America’s eyes widened in shock, offended. “Wh-what?! There shouldn’t be anything embarrassing in my house!”
Romano’s voice cracked with frustration and fear as he spun, fists clenching, his chest heaving.
“Just shut your yap!! I don’t have any other choice but to live off you, you numb-nut!!”
America muttered softly, confusion lacing his tone.
“I don’t remember endorsing that option?“
Romano’s anger faltered for a heartbeat, replaced by the stark reality: he had no choice. Not in this foreign land, not without connections, not without a way to survive.
America’s eyes brightened slightly, and he spoke, voice deliberate.
“I can’t just let you live off me… but what if there’s something only you can do?“
Romano snorted, bitter, muttering under his breath.
“…If a job like that existed, I wouldn’t be here. I’m not capable like my brother, okay, you testa di cazzo?“
America blinked, then asked simply.
“Can I ask you just one question then? Can you cook?“
Romano froze. His glare sharpened.
“The fuck kinda question is that? Askin’ me if I can cook food? Italian? No fuckin’ duh, I can.” His voice carried pride, irritation, and the edge of disbelief. It was his food, his skill, the one thing no one could take from him.
America’s face lit up like sunrise over dark clouds. Relief, genuine excitement, poured from his smile.
“That's great! Then cook for me.”
He leaned back slightly, gesturing with a hand as if to clarify, speaking with surprising seriousness.
“I’m working constantly, Romano. Everyone around here wants Italian food. I want Italian food too, but I don’t know how to cook. I don’t have time to go to a restaurant just to eat with all the work. You… you get a job you like doing, cooking the food you know, and you don’t have to risk getting fired or settle for low pay.”
Romano’s chest tightened. Food. His food. The one thing he controlled. The one thing he knew was his own, untouched by Europe’s modernizations or his brother’s successes. Pride flickered through his irritation.
“Don’t expect me to start liking you, bastardo.” He muttered, voice low but firm.
America clapped his hands together like a problem solved.
“Okay! You cook it, I cover expenses, simple!”
Romano froze, eyes narrowing. He knew America was loud, overconfident, and… well, naive—but this felt different. Was this some kind of pity? Some attempt to buy his compliance, to soften him with cash because America thought he was helpless? He bristled with suspicion and offense, fists tightening—but then he looked down at the absurd stack of bills America had shoved into his coat pocket.
Heavy, crisp, official-looking. Money that spoke louder than words, louder than respect, louder than anything Romano wanted to admit he needed.
He muttered under his breath, angry and ashamed, slumping slightly.
“Stupid country… stupid America…“
Yet, for all his complaints, for all his irritation, for all the pride that screamed against the idea… he didn’t leave the rooftop.
Not yet.
Act 2: Grocery Shopping
The market hit Romano all at once.
Not the smell—though that came close—but the space.
Wide aisles for carts, not just baskets. Open barrels instead of locked cupboards. Meat laid out in plain view behind glass cases, not hidden in back rooms or parceled out by request. Sides of beef hung on hooks, red and heavy, like they were meant to be seen. Butter stacked in wrapped bricks. Cheese cut thick, sold by the pound, not shaved thin like something precious.
Romano stopped just inside the doorway, shoulders locking up.
His hand went automatically to the inside pocket of his coat, fingers brushing the folded stack of America’s money. Too much of it. Stupidly thick. The kind of sum that didn’t belong in an immigrant’s coat unless someone powerful was backing him.
Great. Just great.
The first thing he noticed wasn’t the food.
It was the looks.
The moment he stepped inside, the noise dipped just a little, like someone had lowered the volume knob. A butcher paused mid-cut. A woman tugged her basket closer to her skirts. Somewhere down the aisle, a voice muttered something about “dagos“ or “foreigners“ under their breath. Romano didn’t catch every word, but he caught enough.
They weren’t talking to him.
They were talking about him.
His jaw tightened hard enough to ache. His grip dug into the strap of his basket.
“Tch.” He muttered. “Same bullshit. New country.”
He kept walking.
He’d crossed borders before. He knew this feeling—the way people looked at his clothes, his accent, the way he counted coins out of habit even when he didn’t need to. Southern Italians weren’t welcome anywhere, not really. Not in the North. Not here. Not without proving themselves first.
Southern Italian. Poor. Loud. Catholic. Suspicious by default. In places like this, he was expected to buy little, ask little, keep their heads down.
A man like him was expected to buy bread. Onions. Maybe some dried pasta if he was lucky. Definitely not linger.
Romano didn’t slow down.
‘I’ve done this before!’ He told himself sharply. ‘Keep moving. Don’t give them a damn thing.’
He tried to focus on why he was here.
Pasta. Tomatoes. Cheese. That’s it.
Simple. Proper. Respectable.
Then he turned the corner.
And froze.
Meat is everywhere.
Not cured. Not hanging to dry. Cuts. Thick ones. Beef laid out like it’s ordinary. Pork stacked without ceremony. Chicken piled like it was nothing. No locked cabinets. No careful measuring. No sense that this was something precious. Back home, meat—especially beef—was planned around, used sparingly or as a condiment. Cuts like these were saved for holidays, a good year, or a debt you justified later. Stretched thin so it would last.
Here?
It sat out like it was fucking bread.
Romano stood there too long, scowling.
“…What the hell.” He muttered.
He moved on, uneasy, and nearly walked straight into a butter stall.
Butter. Stacks of it.
Wapped in paper. Brick after brick. Uniform, pale yellow. No scale in sight yet.
He picked one up, then checked the price.
Once.
Twice.
Then he swore loudly in Italian.
“Ma che caz—“
A few heads turned.
Romano snapped the butter back onto the stack like it insulted him personally.
No. No, that’s wrong.
This is luxury. This is holiday food. Rich food. Northern food.
This is more than one family would ever see in a lifetime back home.
His eyes slid to the cheese beside it.
Cow’s milk butter. Cow’s milk cheese.
God—Romano couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten cheese that didn’t come from a goat or sheep! Back home, although there are cows, it's better used for tilling fields, not for milk or meat in large quantities. Getting lots of products that came from cows meant connections. It meant favors. It meant family somewhere better off.
Here? Apparently it means Tuesday.
He passed crates of vegetables, baskets of bread, bins of dried pasta. When he finally asked about cheese, his accent came out thick and sharp, his English slightly clipped from disuse.
“Cheese. That one. What’s the price?“
The shopkeeper leaned forward like Romano was stupid.
“Cheese?“ the man repeated, slower. Louder. “You want cheese?“
Romano’s jaw clenched.
“Yes, damn it. I said cheese!” He barked, stabbing a finger toward the display.
The shopkeeper pointed at a sign that Romano failed to see.
The price was posted in clear ink.
He stared at it.
Then stared again.
It wasn’t outrageous.
It wasn’t even bad.
He stood there, staring at the sign, feeling something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
Confusion. Anger. Embarrassment.
That was the real shock.
Not the hostility. Not the stares. Not even the way the shopkeeper watched his hands like he might pocket something, or muttering if the foreigner was blind.
The price.
Because that can’t be right.
He did the math again. Slower. Careful.
Still cheap.
Cheaper than home.
Cheap in a way that made his stomach twist, like the numbers are lying to him.
Romano picked up a block of butter again—paused, half-expecting someone to yell at him.
No one did.
That strangely bothered him more than being watched.
“What kind of idiot place is this?“ He muttered.
He checked the price again. Still cheap. Absurdly so.
He put it down.
Picked it back up.
He starts adding things to his basket.
Pasta first. Then cheese. Another block of cheese, because the price still doesn’t make sense.
He hesitated at the butter.
He picked it up, scowling. “I don’t need this…“ He muttered. He put it back. Took two steps.
Stopped. Clicked his tongue and grabbed it anyway.
Then meat.
He stared at the ground beef.
Back home, he’d use pork. Or mix it with bread. Or not use this much at all.
“…Beef, huh.” He scoffed. “Fine. Stupid America.”
He added it.
Then more.
Garlic—cheap. Parsley—fresh. Pepper—cheap. Tomatoes—fresh, bright, everywhere.
He glanced around. The shopkeeper at the end of the aisle was watching him too closely. Another shopper eyed his basket, then his coat, then looked away. An Irish immigrant met his eyes briefly—no smile, just understanding.
Romano bristled.
‘They think I can’t pay.’
Something ugly flared in his chest.
‘They think I shouldn’t be buying this much. They think I stole it.’
‘Fine.’
His basket was getting heavy now. Too full. Ridiculous.
Part disbelief.
Part temptation.
Part pure spite.
‘It’s cheap.
America won’t notice.
This is stupid but—’
He felt America’s money in his coat. Government money. Power money.
Romano hated it.
Hated needing it.
But he pulled it out anyway.
‘You think I’m poor.’
‘Oh, you think I’m poor?’
‘Fine.’
He added another butter. Another pound of ground beef. The heavy cream he didn’t know what it was used for but wanted to buy out of curiosity. Extra pasta, because why not. His basket was ridiculous now, overflowing, unbalanced.
‘HAH. Look at this.’
‘Look how much I can buy.’
‘Look how cheap it is.’
‘Look how rich I am.’
Someone stared.
Romano stared back, daring them to say something.
‘Yeah. I’m buying it.’
‘All of it.’
‘What are you gonna do? Stop me?’
By the time he reached the counter, the shopkeeper’s eyebrow rose.
Skeptical. Suspicious.
Too much, that look says. For someone like you.
The pause stretched just long enough to sting.
Romano didn’t hesitate.
He reaches into his coat and pulls out America’s money.
It’s unmistakable. Crisp. Excessive. The kind of sum that doesn’t belong in an immigrant’s hands unless someone powerful put it there.
He slaps it onto the counter.
Hard.
The sound cracked through the space, sharp and undeniable.
“I work for a government official.” Romano snapped, voice tight with fury. “Personal chef. You better start taking this money, bastard.”
The shopkeeper’s expression changed instantly.
That part made Romano feel sick.
Not the anger. Not the shouting.
Not the suspicion before.
But the way respect arrives only once money speaks for him.
He paid in full. Didn’t rush. Didn’t flinch.
He walked out with the basket digging into his hands, his chest tight with a fierce, hollow satisfaction.
Only later in the walk back—much later—did the weight of it all start to feel like regret.
Not because he’d spent too much.
But because he’d used America’s wealth as a shield.
And hated that it worked.
Act 3: Cooking Pasta (The Crime)
Romano stands in America’s kitchen with his sleeves rolled up and his jaw set, treating the space like hostile territory. Everything is oversized—the burners roar too loudly, the pots are thick and heavy in a way that feels excessive. The counters are bare, unsettlingly so. No half-used jars. No stains. No signs of a life that revolves around food.
“Fine.” He mutters. “A kitchen’s a kitchen.”
He fills a pot with water and sets it to boil, salting it by instinct. Then he pauses, scowls, and adds more. Enough that it tastes right. Enough that the pasta won’t be insulted. This, at least, he refuses to compromise on.
He lines up the ingredients on the counter like he’s bracing himself:
Pasta, tomatoes, garlic, parsley, black pepper, olive oil.
“This is it.” He mutters. “Don’t get stupid.”
He starts the sauce.
Garlic goes in first—minced finer than he means to—sliding into shimmering olive oil. He stirs immediately, watching it like a hawk, pulling it back the second the smell turns sharp and sweet. Tomatoes follow, crushed by hand, juice and all, hissing as they hit the pan.
Salt, slowly.
Pepper, restrained.
The smell is familiar. Grounding. For a moment, it almost feels like home.
The water’s rolling now. He drops the pasta in and stirs so it doesn’t stick, eyes flicking to the clock. He doesn’t trust America’s stove not to betray him.
That’s when he notices the butter.
Right there.
Softened.
Cheap.
Too much of it.
He stares at it like it’s a loaded weapon.
“No.” He says aloud. “That’s not how this works.”
Even though he personally lives better than most of his people ever did, Romano carries the memory of his people in the villages, the fields, the scarcity that shaped generations of southern Italians. It isn’t just a question of taste or tradition—waste feels like a betrayal to his own people.
He turns his back on it and checks the pasta, fishing out a strand to bite. Too firm. Good. He leaves it—keeps it al dente.
Then he sees the beef.
Too much beef.
He frowns at the ground meat. Back home, he’d stretch it—breadcrumbs, egg, herbs. Meat was meant to support a dish, not dominate it. Pure beef was indulgent. Wasteful.
America’s kitchen doesn’t care.
“…I could make polpette.” He mutters. “Just once.”
He tells himself it’s practical. That America expects something filling. That this is what people here want.
No breadcrumbs.
No stretching.
Just meat, salt, pepper, a touch of garlic.
Intrusive thoughts win.
He rolls the meat into meatballs—dense, heavy in his palms. They feel wrong. His hands hesitate halfway through, fingers tightening like he might tear them apart and start over.
He doesn’t.
They hit the pan with a violent sizzle. The smell of browning beef floods the kitchen, rich and unmistakable. He turns them carefully, letting them crust instead of crumble.
Then—the real crime.
He reaches for the butter.
“Just a little.” He mutters. “Just to soften it.”
The butter melts instantly, flooding the sauce with warmth and fat. He stirs as the acidity smooths out, the tomatoes darkening, thickening, turning glossy in a way they’re never supposed to.
“This is so wrong.” He says, quieter this time.
The meatballs go back in, soaking it up. He adds parsley, the green sharp against the red, and more black pepper than he normally would.
The smell deepens. Heavy. Comforting.
He ladles pasta water—cloudy with starch—into the sauce. The sound changes immediately. It loosens, then tightens, clinging instead of pooling.
That part, at least, is correct.
Then the cheese.
He grates it slowly, carefully. It melts almost on contact, disappearing into the sauce. His chest tightens. Back home, cheese like this would’ve been shaved thin, saved, rationed.
Here, it vanishes.
He stops.
Then adds more.
He drains the pasta, still al dente, and folds it into the pan, tossing hard, letting a splash of pasta water bind every strand.
At the end, a final knob of butter melts in, glossy and unforgivable.
He tells himself it’s for shine.
For texture.
For balance.
He tastes it.
Freezes.
God.
It’s rich. Warm. Comforting in a way that makes his chest ache. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once. It tastes like abundance. Like someone who never had to count.
That’s what makes it worse.
Not the ingredients.
Not the excess.
Not even the certainty that he’d be yelled at back home.
It’s that it tastes good.
Too good.
He stares down at the pan like it personally betrayed him.
“…I’ve committed a crime.” He mutters flatly.
And somewhere in the house, America is already getting excited about dinner.
Act 4: Shame
Romano plates the pasta.
Then just… stares at it.
Elbows on the table.
Hands tangled in his hair.
In absolute culinary despair.
This isn’t pasta.
This isn’t authentic.
His people back home would kill him.
He considers throwing it out.
The shame weighs on him, heavy, almost physical, pressing him down into the chair.
Then America walks in, humming.
“Ooo—so this is the pasta you were talking about?“
Before Romano can protest, America digs in.
Pauses.
Then lights up.
“Oh my god. This is delicious.”
Romano freezes.
Pure offense.
Personal insult taken.
He glares at America like he’s committed a murder in the guise of cooking.
It’s not authentic! How dare you like it! Shut up, you fucking bastard! Even though I made it!
America ignores the silent storm in Romano’s glare and keeps eating, eyes shining, completely delighted.
Romano just… sits. Mortified and humiliated.
‘I’m gonna kill myself.’ Romano decided in shame.
“Do we have seconds Romano? Have you tried it yet cause it's DELISCIOUS!!”
“Hamburger bastard I’m gonna kill you too.”
“HUH??? WHAT DID I DO???“
Act 5: Filling Meal
A decade later, America barely finished unwrapping a chocolate bar before Romano noticed.
He didn’t raise his voice at first. That was worse.
“What the hell is that?“ Romano said, staring at it like it had personally crawled out of the wrapper to offend him.
America blinked, halfway through breaking off a piece. “Huh? Oh—this? It’s fine. I forgot lunch, so—“
The sentence never finished.
Romano snatched the bar straight out of his hand.
“Oi—!”
Romano turned it over, eyes flicking across the label with practiced efficiency. Sugar. More sugar. A number that meant nothing and everything. His jaw tightened.
“This.” He said slowly, dangerously calm.”Is not lunch.”
“It’s got calories…“ America offered weakly, already regretting it.
Romano stared at him for a long second. Then he turned, took three sharp steps, and threw the chocolate bar straight into the trash.
“HEY—!”
“Shut up.” Romano snapped, spinning back around. “You work all day like an idiot and think this counts as food?“
America opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “…It’s convenient?“
That did it.
Romano reached for a pan with enough force to rattle the cabinet.
“You’re the number one country in the world!” He snapped, yanking open the fridge. “You’ve got meat. Cheese. Pasta. Vegetables. Things people back home had to save for—plan around—pray for—“
He paused, hand clenched around the fridge door.
“And you’re eating sugar like a child.”
The pan hit the stove with a sharp clang. Romano moved fast after that, like stopping would make him explode. Oil in the pan. Heat turned up. Ingredients dragged out and slapped onto the counter.
“I’m not letting you wreck your stomach.” He said, voice tight.”Just because you’re too busy playing hero.”
America stood there, stunned, watching Romano take over the kitchen like it was muscle memory. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just sharp, practiced motions—knife flashing, ingredients measured by instinct instead of numbers.
“…You’re mad.” America said carefully.
“I’m furious, bastard.” Romano corrected without looking up. “Sit. You’ll eat properly.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
America hesitated. Just for a second. Then he sat.
Romano didn’t thank him. Didn’t acknowledge it. He was already cooking—oil sizzling, garlic hitting the pan, the smell filling the room fast and warm and impossible to ignore.
America leaned his elbows on the table, watching. His stomach twisted—not with hunger, not exactly, but with something heavier. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone noticed. Since someone cared enough to be angry.
Romano shoved a plate in front of him minutes later. Pasta. Real pasta. Steam rising, sauce clinging, portions meant to stay.
“Eat.” Romano said shortly. “While it’s hot.”
America did.
The first bite made his shoulders drop without him meaning to.
Romano watched from the stove, arms crossed, scowling like this was still a crime. Like he wasn’t counting bites out of the corner of his eye.
America glanced up, mouth full. “It’s good.”
“I know! I made it!” Romano snapped. Then, after a beat.”And don’t rush.”
America smiled, small and genuine, and slowed down.
Act 6: "Why?"
A century later,
France sat across from America at a bustling Italian restaurant, a plate of spaghetti sloppily dressed in a thick, tomato-heavy sauce in front of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowing.
“Mon dieu… America. You call this Italian food?“ France said, voice sharp. “This is… a monstrosity. What would the Italies think?“
America shrugged, fork twirling lazily. “I like it. Italian-American food. It’s… good. Hearty. Familiar.”
France nearly choked. “What would the Italies say? What about Veneziano? What about Romano? Do you have any idea how offensive—“
“Relax, France.” America interrupted, smiling faintly. “It’s Romano. Romano made this. South Italy. I think he’d thank me for eating it.”
France blinked, eyes widening. “…What? Romano??“
“Yeah.” America said, fork paused mid-air. “Romano came and lived with me during the Second Industrial Revolution. He was my personal chef!”
France’s fork froze. “Wait… you mean—“
“Exactly.” America said, casual but proud. “Romano. He’s the reason I love Italian-American food. All of it. Every greasy, over-sauced, ridiculously cheesy bite.”
France blinked again, taking a slow sip of wine. “…Mon dieu. And you ate it willingly?“
“I did.” America said, smiling faintly. “And I still do.”
He set down the fork and sighed, leaning back slightly. “I used to forget to eat.”
“Back when everything was… moving too fast.”
France paused mid-sip, brow furrowing.
“Candy bars. Bread. Whatever was quickest.” America continued, shrugging. “Efficient.”
France grimaced. “Mon dieu… that is not a meal. That is a cry for help.”
“Romano said the same thing.” America laughed, faintly amused. “He threw a shoe at me once and started yelling like I’d committed a personal crime by skipping a real meal.”
France blinked. “…Ah.”
“He’d get pissed.” America continued. “Genuinely furious. Yelling about waste. About how people back in southern Italy would’ve killed for half the food I had sitting around. Then he’d cook anyway.” He smiled, small but warm.
France watched him, wineglass forgotten.
“He didn’t care how busy I was.” America said. “Didn’t care if it was convenient. If there was food, I ate properly. No shortcuts.”
France tilted his head. “And this?“ He gestured to the takeout container.
“This is what remains.” America looked down.
“It’s not authentic.” He admitted. “Romano hated that. Said it was wrong. Too much. Excessive.” He chuckled. “But it’s hot. Filling. Comforting. It sticks with you.”
He lifted his fork.
“I don’t like being hungry anymore.”
France was quiet for a beat. Then he smiled—soft, not teasing. “…He cared about you.” He said simply.
America didn’t respond. He just took a bite.
The sauce was heavy, the meat dense. Not refined, not elegant—but it did exactly what it was supposed to do. It filled him.