Chapter Eleven #2
The inside of the restaurant was a page out of Italy. Tuscan walls crafted to look like the aged facade of an old city. Plants draped over window boxes under painted-on fake windows. The lights were low, and ambient music gifted from Italy was coming from the speakers in the room.
An unexpected twinge of homesickness poked at Mari’s soul.
Tucked in one of the farthest seats, in a booth meant for three people at the most, Mari slid in and folded her hands in her lap.
The hostess assured them their waiter would be right over and left.
“I feel guilty passing all of those people waiting,” Mari said once they were alone.
“I’m sure that is all by design. As well as this seat.”
They could see a table set for two in front of them, the booth to the side was occupied, but there was space between them for even more privacy.
Before they could say more, the waiter arrived. He, like the hostess, started with a greeting in Italian, followed by an introduction in English. “Buonasera. My name is Lorenzo. I’ll be serving you tonight.”
His accent was thick, and his English was flawless.
He handed them both menus and gave James the wine list.
“Good evening,” James said.
“Buonasera,” Mari added.
Lorenzo’s eyes widened. “Parlo Italiano?”
“I do,” Mari said in English.
“Perfetto. I’ll give you time to settle in and look at the menu.
I in no way want you to rush.” Lorenzo looked to the booth closest and then leaned in and lowered his voice.
When he spoke again, he did so in Italian.
Our reservations are normally set for two hours.
Under the circumstances, we welcome you to stay as long as you like.
As much as Mari disapproved of speaking Italian when the person she was with didn’t, she understood why the waiter had decided to tell her about their special treatment in the other language.
She placed a hand on top of James’s as if asking forgiveness for being so rude before responding to Lorenzo’s instructions. Thank you for letting us know. Neither of us feel ill in any way. I’m sure this is all a precaution.
Lorenzo thanked her and said he’d be back momentarily.
“What did he say?” James asked as soon as they were alone.
Mari leaned closer, her voice just above a whisper. “Their reservations are set at two hours, but we’re encouraged to stay longer. I don’t think they want us out mingling.”
James whispered back. “Let’s not tell them that we didn’t really want to.”
She realized her hand still covered James’s.
Slowly, she slipped it away. “I apologize for speaking in Italian. I don’t think it could have been avoided.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Because it’s rude.”
“I think it’s fantastic. I can mutter my way through a little construction Spanish, but being able to speak another language fluently . . . I’m envious,” he said.
“When someone switches languages midconversation, it’s often mistaken that whoever is speaking is gossiping about someone that doesn’t understand them. I have a hard-and-fast rule in my home. Group conversations are in English if someone there doesn’t speak Italian. Except for Sundays.”
“Why Sundays?”
“We have family dinners on Sundays. Franny, my granddaughter, is encouraged to only speak Italian on Sundays. It is our way to ensure she is fluent in the language. My two daughters-in-law don’t speak Italian, so that rule has some wiggle room these days.
Both Brooke and Emma are slowly learning, with Franny as their prudent teacher. ”
“That’s great. I have never understood why families who have a second language in their home don’t make sure their children are fluent.”
“That’s because many families who immigrated here want their children to assimilate as quickly as possible. To them, that means leaving the old language behind.”
James shook his head. “They think being an American means they can’t speak a second language?”
“Most Americans don’t. Thankfully, my parents didn’t think this way, neither did I. Now my grandchildren will grow up learning two languages and understand when it is appropriate and inappropriate to speak them.”
James smiled. “Like talking in code at a table in a restaurant?”
“Correct. Unless the staff didn’t speak English, then conversations need to be translated. Sometimes it helps to slip in and out of Italian for those who don’t speak fluent English. But that is completely different than isolating those that don’t speak both.”
“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” James said.
“I have. My family is loud and loveable. Add our language to that mix, and it can sound as if we’re arguing.”
“You don’t argue?”
Mari lifted both hands in the air. “Sometimes we argue. Sometimes we need to be louder to be heard. But it’s always with love.”
“That sounds like my home when the girls are there.”
Mari wondered what his home was like when his daughters weren’t there. She assumed it was quiet.
Too quiet.
She loved the chaos of her family. If the noise suddenly stopped, she wouldn’t know what to do with herself. Not for long periods of time, that is.
Lorenzo returned with a bottle of sparkling and clear water and asked if they’d taken a look at the menu.
They passed on a cocktail, and James handed her the wine menu, deeming her the expert.
Mari passed that on to the waiter.
Lorenzo then passed that on to the sommelier.
In the end, they settled on a Montepulciano from the Abruzzo region of Italy and waited on the chef-recommended appetizer that paired with the wine.
“Tell me about your girls.” Mari sipped her wine and sat back to enjoy what was destined to be a wonderful meal. “Do they have boyfriends?”
From the hard stare James delivered, Mari knew she’d hit a sore subject.
“Madison likes her books more than boys. Ellie, on the other hand . . .”
“I wish you could see the look on your face.”
“His name is Trevor, and I don’t like him. He rides a motorcycle.”
“Gio had a motorcycle. Ryan, Salena’s husband and Emma’s brother . . . he drives a motorcycle.”
“I’m not suggesting motorcycles make the person, but this is Trevor.”
“Is that the dad in you talking? The one that would shield his daughters from boys all their lives?” she asked.
He narrowed his gaze. “I’m going to say something and please don’t hold it against me.”
“Okay.”
“You sound like Cindy. My ex.” James put his wineglass to his lips.
Mari wasn’t offended. “You mean like a mother?”
“Maybe.”
Since James easily brought up his ex-wife, Mari felt at liberty to mention Paulo.
“When Chloe was finishing high school, Paulo was sick. That didn’t stop him from having an opinion on the subject of boys. Having her brothers act on Paulo’s behalf made Chloe crazy.”
“I wish I had a son to help out.”
“Did you want more kids?” Mari asked.
He shrugged. “I would have been open to it. Cindy was happy with two, and since we weren’t batshit crazy about each other, I didn’t see a need to push it. After the divorce, it never crossed my mind.”
“Until the girls started to date.”
James pointed the wineglass in her direction. “Exactly.”
The waiter returned with two pieces of bruschetta that they didn’t order. “Compliments of our chef. He understands you own a restaurant and would love your opinion.”
“That’s lovely.”
“This is something he’s working on. Bruschetta, of course, with the garlic in the bread and a hint of truffle oil. Enjoy.”
James reached for the Italian classic and winked. “I see how this is going to go tonight.”
“In restaurants like this, I’m happy to tell the chef who I am. Italian chefs love to share their creations. If you’re lucky, they’ll tell you their secret ingredients.”
They took a bite.
The truffle, which was often overdone, gave the bruschetta a rich, smoky flavor that put weight on the otherwise light appetizer.
Mari approved. “Deliziosa.”
In addition to the appetizer they’d ordered, the chef sent out samples of three others.
Mari happily reported what she liked and shared what she did with her versions of the same dish.
When their main arrived, the tables around them had turned over.
Their conversation shifted to Giovanni and Emma and the winery they ran in Temecula. She shared how they had met and fell in love while touring wineries in Italy.
Simply recalling those days and watching her children find their forever love reminded her of how lucky she was.
How full her life had been.
As their dinner plates were whisked away, the chef made an appearance.
The look of him immediately reminded Mari of her father. A little round in the middle, thinned hair on top, and not exactly vertically gifted.
He introduced himself as Chef Matteo. “You are my testers this evening,” he said with a huge smile.
James placed a hand over his stomach. “You stuffed us.”
“But you left room for dessert, yes?”
Mari laughed at the look on James’s face.
“Maybe a cappuccino,” James suggested.
Matteo’s smile fell.
Mari placed a hand on James’s. “No, no, no. We don’t . . . How about two American coffees.”
Matteo shrugged. “And my tiramisu.”
Mari knew better than to argue.
Matteo signaled Lorenzo over and spoke in a rapid-fire Italian. Two American coffees, tiramisu, oh, and a dish of panna cotta with berries . . . and biscotti. For two.
“He’s ordering more than a couple of coffees, isn’t he?” James asked in a whisper.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to ask him in Italian for something special for Rosa.”
James nodded his understanding.
When Matteo turned his attention back to them, Mari switched languages. You’ve been so generous to us tonight, and I hate to ask.
Anything, Matteo responded.
I know you’re not open until the evening, but is it possible for some pastina to be delivered tomorrow to my friend who isn’t feeling well?
Matteo placed both hands on his head, then pulled them away. Of course. I should have thought of that. Do you think she’d like it tonight?
Tomorrow will likely be better, Mari said. A bland broth with small bits of pasta always hit the spot when you finally kept food down.
I will prepare some first thing in the morning. If you think of anything else.
I’ll let you know.
Lorenzo arrived with coffee. Behind him was another server with the sweets neither she nor James had room for.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Chef Matteo said, this time in English.
“If you’re ever in San Diego, you must come see me,” Mari told him.
“I will, I will.”
“Thank you again. Everything was delicious,” James said.
Matteo placed a hand on his chest. “Grazia.”
Once the chef walked away, Lorenzo stepped up to the table. “I’ll bring out takeaway containers when you’re ready.”
Mari eyed the tiramisu with a sigh and picked up a fork.
James reached for the coffee. “I thought Italians loved cappuccino.”
Mari dipped her fork into the dessert. “We do. Just not after noon. This simply isn’t done.”
“Why?” James asked.
Mari looked at him, paused. “It just isn’t.”
James started to laugh.
“I think you just told me the equivalent of ‘because I said so.’”
The fork hovered in front of Mari’s lips. “Because all Italians everywhere said so.”
The tiramisu was just this side of heaven.
“All Italians?”
Mari pointed her now-empty fork at James. “If an Italian chef suggests a cappuccino with his or her desserts, run. American coffee is accepted, espresso is preferred.”
James picked up a fork. “Okay. I’ll put that on the Italian 101 page, right next to not breaking dry spaghetti in half before tossing it into a pot.”
Mari’s smile fell, her fork hit the table. “Cazzo. I would run you out of my kitchen so fast . . .”
James kept laughing. “You should see the look on your face.”
“You’re messing with me.”
“Even I know not to break spaghetti.” James went in for dessert. “But you have to admit, ketchup makes a decent sauce when you’re in a pinch.”
Mari broke all her rules with the stream of unpleasant Italian words that escaped her lips. Both hands were in the air, her body turned toward James in heated disapproval.
James couldn’t stop laughing.