Chapter 9 Elio
It was my first time bringing a girl to Zing’s. All other times, I’d visited this place with my father. His made men, capos, and consigliere would be in attendance, and the whole place would end up looking like a set from a gangster movie.
It was remarkably surprising how different the place seemed now that I’d walked in through its doors not with my security guards and my father, but with a gorgeous woman on my arm. Heads turned to look in my direction, and instead of being startled, they smiled.
A waiter came forward, bowing ever so slightly, and said, “Mr. Romano. Welcome. I have just the table for you and the lady.”
Just the table would be something. All my life I’d sat at the massive table with benches and chairs around it, the one at the center of the restaurant. But now he was leading me elsewhere, up the stairs and toward the balcony facing far more intimate tables for two.
Maria was wowing at everything, from the interior décor to the indoor plants.
The place was nice; I’d give them that. Its interior was a concept I liked to think of as Chinatown in downtown Mumbai.
Not that I’d ever been to China or Mumbai, but I’d seen enough pictures, videos, and travel documentaries to know the aesthetic of both.
And this place had that aesthetic. Dark colored tiled with green corrugated tin roofs on the balcony.
Blackwood pillars holding up the first floor.
Indoor plants with broad leaves. A miniature waterfall rockery outside one of the windows.
A dense garden out back visible from all the windows.
It was perhaps because of that the place was a little humid, but not too much.
There was music playing in the background through overhead speakers.
Gentle instrumentals with sitars and string instruments.
Overhead hung Chinese lanterns, and underneath, on the floor, were rich Persian carpets.
This place shouldn’t have made sense, but it made beautiful sense, and it made me wonder what other cultural fusions could work out? Nordic Italian? Irish Afghan? Could be, could be. Maybe that could be my next line of work after the yacht sales.
“Talk to me, Romano. Where’s your head at?
” I asked, noticing that she was bewilderedly staring from wall to window, from floor to ceiling, eying the dishes the waiters were carrying to other tables.
The restaurant was packed, but all the tables were placed so far apart from each other that it didn’t feel crowded at all.
There were stained glass partitions between some sections of the restaurant.
I assumed it was for private parties and families, given that this, despite its exclusivity, was a traditional restaurant.
“You don’t even know how long I’ve wanted to come to this place. I do have a reservation request, and I think it’s somewhere in 2027 or something. It kinda feels like I’ve gone and broken the rules,” she said. She was being too self-conscious, constantly checking her reflection, adjusting her hair.
“You’re the most beautiful woman in here. Did you know that?” I reached out and held her hand, running my thumb over the top of her hand. “Everyone else should feel conscious. Not you. You light this whole place up.”
“Pretty sure that’s the Chinese lanterns,” she said, chuckling awkwardly. “And all the colonial-style Indian windows.”
The waiter appeared with two leather menu booklets, handing them to us. And then he appeared with complementary mint margaritas. I’d had them before, but it was her reaction that I was looking out for. These were not virgin margaritas.
“Ooh!” she exclaimed after taking her first sip. “Spicy!”
“I bet,” I said, cheering her with my glass. “Now, what shall it be? Believe me, it’s the first time I’m actually ordering for myself. Before that, it was always my father who’d place the order.”
“Look at you, Romano, growing up into your own person,” she said. “I, on the other hand, will not be taking any time. I already know what I want.”
“Well, how about you order for both of us?”
“You’d let me?”
That caught me off-guard. What did she mean by that?
“Err… I meant, we’re at this fancy restaurant, and it’s an expensive one at that. I mean, are you sure that you’d want me to order for you? What if I order something you end up hating? Let’s be real, we don’t know each other all that well,” she said apprehensively.
“Then I’ll hate it and eat it,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “And as for not knowing each other all that well, I was hoping that this date might help us remedy that.”
“You are smooth, Elio Romano. Too smooth for your own good,” she said, eyes squinting in mischief. “Putting the flirts on a girl whose life is in danger. You’re out of a classic novel.”
“Which one?” In the meantime, a waiter appeared with a bottle of wine.
He made to come toward me, but I pointed toward Maria.
He showed her the wine bottle. She studied the name, the vintage, and finally nodded.
He pulled the cork, made a whole show of letting the thing breathe, then poured just a little in one of the glasses.
She then, in turn, made a show of swirling it around, smelling it, and then rinsing her mouth with it.
This was a woman who had fine-dined before.
With whom?
A pang of jealousy poked at my ribs, making me shift uncomfortably.
I was one to be getting jealous. Yeah, right.
Me. The person the New Yorker had dubbed the Casanova of Gen Z.
I hated that title. It made me come across as some shallow idiot who was obsessed with the number of girls I slept with.
It was just simply not true. I had never obsessed over the number of girls I’d slept with.
I’d thought nothing of it. Of the parties I’d thrown, of the one-night stands, of the situationships, and the short-term relationships.
And, here I was, getting insecure, feeling jealous about some imaginary ex-boyfriend.
The waiter poured us each a glass of wine, and then left the bottle there.
“This Soldera from Brunello, it’s as old as I am,” she said, marveling at the red wine she held in her hands. “Deeply aromatic, it’s got hints of cherries, strawberries, roses, and is that a bitter tinge of tobacco in there?”
“A connoisseur?”
“I have a sommelier certification,” she said, raising the glass at me. “This isn’t the first time I’m having this wine, but this is the first time I’m having one this aged.”
“I realize there’s more to you than meets the eye. A sommelier certification?” I laughed in disbelief.
“I also have a license to fly a plane.”
“No you don’t.”
“Caught that one quick,” she said, smiling.
“You do have a sommelier certification, though?”
“Look at me, man. What do you think?” She threw her head back and laughed, clapping her hands.
“I must be very dense.” I chuckled. She was a breath of fresh air.
“Come on, now. Not dense. Just smitten,” she said, closing the menu. The waiter came over promptly. She said, “I think we’re going to have the Desi Tarka Schezwan Noodles, Paneer Chili, Crispy Lemon Butter Chicken, and some Spinach pakoras on the side.”
The man looked impressed as he took all that down. “An excellent choice, madam.”
“Thank you,” she said, handing him the menu booklet.
“Spinach pakoras?” I asked.
“You’re lucky it’s just Spinach. There’s also Bhang Pakoras. Do you wanna know what that is?”
“Go ahead. I’m all ears.”
“It’s marijuana leaves lathed in flour, and then fried. It’s supposed to give you a subtle high afterwards.”
“No way that’s real,” I said, taking my phone out with the intent to Google.
“How about you trust me and not use the All-Knowing Internet for once?” she asked.
“Okay, I can do that, but you can rest assured that I’ll be looking up marijuana fritters when I go home, because how is that real?
“It’s real, and they eat it in India. They’re really creative about their cannabis over there. They even mix it up in their milk and drink it on special occasions,” she said.
“You sound like you’re in awe of the place.”
“Who wouldn’t be? India’s one of the oldest civilizations of the world.
Have you ever seen a video where a guy’s just walking through Delhi or Mumbai?
It’s history built upon history. There’s forts, castles, temples, shrines, palaces.
It’s like, if there’s a real-life high fantasy setting, it’s the Indian subcontinent. ”
“Maybe you and I book a trip, go check it out some time,” I said.
“You make it sound so nonchalant. For me it’s going to be a pilgrimage. Something of a culmination, if I’m being honest. I’ll save money, and once I have enough, I’ll do the whole subcontinent. I’ll even go to China, Thailand, Singapore, the works.”
“How much money are we talking about?” I asked.
“Somewhere north of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars if I want to make a proper three-month trip out of it,” she said.
Fortunately, before I could comment that I’d once thrown away a hundred and fifty grand on bottle service, our food came. It smelled heavenly, and it tasted even better than I’d expected.
We talked as we ate; we laughed; we listened to each other, said what he had to say, but it did not feel forced or pressed for time. By the time we finished our lunch, paid our compliments to the chef, tipped generously, filled out the massive feedback card with glowing praise, it was evening.
“I don’t want to call it a night just yet,” I confessed, taking her hand. “How about I take you dancing?”
“I got something better in mind if you’re up for it,” she said.
Not knowing what I was getting into, I said yes, thinking of the old gods of improv, imagining them looking down on me with beaming smiles.
And the next thing I knew I was in roller skates in a disco rink, holding her hand, both of us speeding along the track while a disco ball threw dazzling light to the groovy rhythm of Michael Bublé.