A winter in New York : a novel / Josie Silver.

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

A young chef stumbles on a secret family recipe that might lead her to the love--and life--she's been looking for in this stunning novel from the New York Times bestselling author of One Day in December .

A POPSUGAR BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR

When Iris decides to move to New York to restart her life, she realizes she underestimated how big the Big Apple really is--all the nostalgic movies set in New York she'd watched with her mom while eating their special secret-recipe gelato didn't quite do it justice.

But Bobby, Iris's best friend, isn't about to let her hide away. He drags her to a famous autumn street fair in Little Italy, and as they walk through the food stalls, a little family-run gelateria catches her eye--could it be the same shop that's in an old photo of her mother's?

Curious, Iris returns the next day and meets the handsome Gio, who tells her that the shop is in danger of closing. His uncle, sole keeper of their family's gelato recipe, is in a coma, so they can't make more. When Iris samples the last remaining batch, she realizes that their gelato and her gelato are one and the same. But how can she tell them she knows their secret recipe when she's not sure why Gio's uncle gave it to her mother in the first place?

Iris offers her services as a chef to help them re-create the flavor and finds herself falling for Gio and his family. But when Gio's uncle finally wakes up, all of the secrets Iris has been keeping threaten to ruin the new life--and new love--she's been building all winter long.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

1. "Was I right or was I right?" Bobby links his arm through mine as we pass beneath the illuminated red, green, and white "Welcome to Little Italy" arch and find the place alive with street vendors, drumbeats, enticing smells and throngs of people as far as the eye can see. My landlord­-slash-best-­friend has twisted my arm into spending the afternoon with him at the Feast of San ­Gennaro--­an Italian food and culture festival that, according to Bobby, New Yorkers look forward to every year--­knowing my love of food is just about the only thing strong enough to entice me from the safety net of my apartment these days. To say I've become a New York homebird since I pitched up on his doorstep nine months ago is something of an understatement. I arrived desperate for change, dreaming of the New York I knew only through my mother's favorite movies. It's laughable really, knowing what I do now, but I genuinely thought there was a chance I'd land a job filling pastrami sandwiches in Katz's Deli, or that there might be an Iris-sized hole waiting for me in the bustling kitchens of the Plaza. Neither were hiring, as it turned out. I wasn't even brave enough to stick around at Katz's Deli long enough to ask--­the queue was crazy-­busy and so long it was out the door and wrapping the block. The Very Tasty Noodle House was hiring, though. Bobby Han hadn't long inherited the entire building, from his swish top-­floor penthouse down to the ailing noodle restaurant at the bottom, even though he'd never so much as touched a wok in his life. I like to think that my brilliant mother walked beside me in spirit as I trudged the darkening New York streets fresh off the plane, turned down by place after place. Blind instinct guided me along Chrystie Street and straight into the path of Bobby Han, who at that precise moment was sticking a chef needed notice in the dusty window of his restaurant. Within the hour I'd accepted not only the job but the keys to the minuscule, old-­fashioned apartment above, recently vacated by his ancient noodle-queen aunt. My pokey home is the buffer between the penthouse Bobby shares with his husband, Robin, and the ground-­floor restaurant, a sponge to soak up all the noise and cooking smells so they can live in peace without the faint linger of peanut oil on their clothes or their Egyptian cotton bedsheets. What I didn't realize back on that first day was that I'd also just found the biggest platonic love of my life. Bobby has turned out to be best friend and big brother all rolled into one gloriously loud, sarcastic package, human gold dust for a lonely girl starting again over three thousand miles from home. This afternoon's rain-­laden sky does nothing to dampen the atmosphere at the festival and there's an infectious energy and buzz in the air that carries people from stall to stall, tasting, savoring, collectively groaning in pleasure. "You were so right," I say, drinking in the carnival of color and noise. "I want to try everything!" We pause to observe the golden statue of Saint Januarius, patron saint of Naples, a brief tranquil moment before allowing the throng of people to carry us farther along the street. "We need to start with sausage," Bobby says, steering me toward an impressively large catering truck bedecked with fluttering Italian flags. Rings of sausage sizzle on huge metal plancha grills, ready to be chopped and loaded into rolls piled high with slippery onions and peppers. I watch in fascination as an aproned guy behind the grill curls the sausage with fast, skillful hands, and another chops and fills sandwiches with the confidence of someone who has done it a million times before. "Food of the actual gods," Bobby says, ordering two. I'm so ready for it when I take it from him. It's how I imagined, only about a hundred times better. "If I eat all of this I'll be stuffed," I say. Bobby is already more than halfway through his. "But you're still gonna, right?" I nod, not even sorry. The sandwich is smoky and rich, heaven in a bun. We walk and eat, soaking in the atmosphere, the low background hum of generators adding an air of fairground. People shout and laugh, a market-­day-­like jostle, and I feel myself relax into it, enjoying the change of scene. And what a scene it is. Glittered streamers and lights span the buildings over our heads, and everyone milling around below is here for the same thing--­to feast. It speaks to my chef's heart in a language I understand, and it jolts me how much I miss creating new dishes and the joy of watching people eat. Cooking up bowl after bowl of noodles is soothing in its own way, but I'm really just trying to imitate the authenticity of Bobby's aunt rather than pave my own path or come up with my own dishes. Being around all this creativity and culinary joy reminds me what drew me to kitchens in the first place: the heat, the urgency, the deep satisfaction. I miss it all viscerally, another piece of me temporarily lost because of Adam Bronson. There are lots of those pieces--­my career, my self-­worth, my confidence, the things that made me feel like me. I imagine them all lined up on the shelf of an emotional lost-­property office waiting for me to reclaim them. I will. I am. Slowly, but I am. We follow the sandwiches with sweet, ricotta-­stuffed cannoli and I lean on Bobby, laughing as I swoon. "This was your best idea yet," I say. "I have lots of others," he says. "Just say the word." I appreciate his unpushy nature a great deal, he's such easy company to be in. I know he worries I don't get out enough. He's probably right. In truth, the dentist is probably the social highlight in my calendar. It's not that I'm the reclusive type, per se, just that I was at rock bottom when I arrived in New York and it's taken some time to rebuild myself. Maybe that does look reclusive from the outside, especially against the bells-­and-­whistles backdrop of New York, but it's been restorative for me up to now. I've got Bobby and Robin, and there's Bobby's niece Shen, too. She's the kind of nineteen-­year-­old who could run the world in her lunchtime if she so chose, but prefers to serve noodles to Bobby's customers between taking classes and dancing her way across the city every night. She's a pretty decent chef too, always happy to take over at the stove if I need a night off, which isn't very often. And then there's Smirnoff, who isn't technically my cat or Bobby's; he's lived in our building longer than either of us and seems to have full jurisdiction over where he parks his furry orange behind. Some nights he chooses my sagging green armchair, while other nights he's full stretch on Bobby's windowsill, watching the street shift down below. And then there are nights when he doesn't come in at all. I like to imagine him scaling the zigzag metal fire escape to prowl the perimeters of the building or visiting a glamorous Persian for a late-­night booty call. In reality he's probably on someone else's sofa eating someone else's food--­he's pretty shameless when it comes to taking what he wants. We should all be a bit more Smirnoff. Music cranks up from loudspeakers just along the street, and Bobby tugs me by the hand to follow the herd, crooning an almost-­impressive rendition of "That's Amore" as we go. "You have to see this," he says, finding us a spot on the sidelines. "Meatball-­eating competition." The crowd parts as he speaks, clapping as they allow a line of waiting staff bearing huge silver trays of meatballs to march through the center toward a raised stand where a line of contestants sit ready for battle. "I wonder how someone becomes an eating-­contest champion," I marvel, gazing along the everyday faces of the men and women each about to consume enough food to feed a small village. A sequin-­clad woman gives a rousing rendition of "The Star-­Spangled Banner" and then they're off, stuffing as many meatballs as they can into their faces, washing them down with bottle after bottle of water. The crowd goes mad for it, shouting encouragement, and I watch as the contestants eat with varying degrees of gusto, sauce on their chins and ­T-­shirts. It's crazy, over-the-­top and feel-­good, a gluttonous celebration of this vibrant Italian corner of New York. Afterward we buy bracing shots of limoncello and cardboard trays of hot, sugared zeppole, stepping off the sidewalk into the tiled doorway of a closed shop for shelter as the heavens open. "I'll admit it. This was fun." I rest my backside on the traditional wooden window ledge. I'm warm inside my jacket, potent alcohol sliding into my bloodstream. Excerpted from A Winter in New York: A Novel by Josie Silver All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Trying to leave behind in London the grief over her mother's death and the hurt of an abusive relationship, thirtysomething chef Iris heads to New York City for a fresh start. Growing up, she'd spent hours watching movies set in New York with her mother while eating her secret-recipe gelato. At a festival in New York's Little Italy, Iris encounters Belotti's Gelateria and realizes that it's the origin of her mother's special gelato. Returning to the gelateria, she finds handsome Gio running the shop but despairing because his uncle is in the hospital after having a stroke, and he doesn't know the closely guarded recipe for the gelato. Iris offers to help recreate the gelato to keep the business going, and soon Iris's relationship with Gio and his family deepens. But she lies about her ex and her connections to his family compound, and she'll have to tell them the truth as the holidays approach. VERDICT Iris and Gio's relationship is full of sexy, heart-meltingly romantic moments in this emotional and charming rom-com from Silver (One Day in December), which deserves its own movie.--Melissa DeWild

Publishers Weekly Review

Silver (One Night on the Island) offers a middling contemporary rom-com full of manufactured drama and pointless miscommunication. London chef Iris Raven flees her abusive relationship, leaving Britain for New York City. There, she discovers that her mother's signature gelato recipe is the same as the top-secret recipe of a local gelateria, Belotti's. With the chef and Belotti family patriarch in the hospital, the recipe is lost and Gio Belotti, a handsome widower, struggles to keep the business afloat. Gio also believes Iris is a widow due to their snappish first meeting at a bookstore during which she lied to win an argument. Instead of explaining the situation and offering her mother's recipe, Iris embarks on a convoluted scheme to secretly steer Gio toward the correct recipe over the course of months. Their slow-burning romance is interspersed with flashbacks to her mother Vivien's time in 1980s New York--and her own love affair with a Belotti man. Iris is the maudlin author of her own misery, propelling the paper-thin plot forward through a series of bizarre choices. All but Silver's most devoted fans can skip this one. Agent: Nelle Andrew, Rachel Mills Literary. (Oct.)

Kirkus Book Review

A woman uncovers family secrets--and finds love--at a gelato shop in Little Italy. In 1985 New York City, up-and-coming musician Vivien falls in love with Santo Belotti over two whirlwind days, but she has to leave him behind to embark on a tour with her band. In parting, Santo gives Vivien his family's secret gelato recipe, which has kept their shop thriving for decades, and she vows to one day return with it. In the present day, Vivien's 34-year-old daughter, Iris, has just moved to New York with little more than her late mother's pink melamine bowls and the secret recipe for the gelato they ate from them. Iris, a former chef, takes up a job at a dingy noodle restaurant on Chrystie Street, making fast friends with its owner, Bobby Han. She's content to keep her life small, sticking close to her tiny apartment over the restaurant. But when Bobby takes her to Little Italy, Iris stumbles upon a door she's only seen in one of her mother's photographs--of Santo, the only man she ever loved. The door belongs to Belotti's gelateria, famous for its vanilla gelato--the same gelato Vivien's mother made for her. When Iris enters the shop, she meets Santo's 39-year-old nephew, Gio, and learns that Santo had a stroke and can't remember the recipe. Now Iris is the only one who can help the Belotti family. Can she do it without revealing Santo's secret? Or will her past--and her growing feelings for Gio--get in the way? The Belotti family is full of vibrant characters who are easy to love and fun to read. But the novel drags due to several superfluous plots that do little to advance the main narrative. Like a scoop of gelato on a hot day, this one is sweet but messy. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.