Seven
“More wine, signore?”
Piacere Mio boasts an eclectic mix of old-world offerings and Michelin star hospitality.
Vintage Florentine leather-wrapped decanters decorate the bar area.
Magnificent scrollwork accents the rich, dark wood.
The private table for two that I reserved was draped in crisp, white linen, and comparable to the sunrises of my youth, a red, Murano glass wall sconce cast a romantic glow.
“Not yet, grazie. I’ll wait for my guest.”
“Prego,” the waiter said, leaving the wine on the table.
“Excuse me.”
“Si, signore?”
“Why is the Chianti wrapped in a straw basket?”
“It’s in a fiasco, or basket as you say, because that’s how they used to protect the fragile glass bottle. Now,” he said, shrugging, “it’s simply nostalgic.”
“Interesting, thank you.”
“You are welcome, sir.”
Alex insisted that she meet me at the restaurant.
I wondered if she refused to let me pick her up because she didn’t want me to know where she lived.
Although I could easily find her address in the phone book, it was far more important to respect her privacy.
“Never go through a woman’s purse,” ma has always said, “Some things are none of your business.”
The dining room feels intimate. Among the diners, a group of businessmen occupy a round table for five.
A young couple with a well-behaved child are enjoying dessert, and a silver-haired man and woman are laughing spiritedly.
I had to look away. It still hurts to think of pop.
We didn’t dine out often, but when we did, it was a celebration of life.
He was vocal when he loved a restaurant and always made sure to speak to the owner to rave about the food, or service.
There were times when he was disappointed, and he was vocal then, too.
I’ll never forget the look on the waitress’s face when on one occasion, my father asked if she had eaten.
She told him no, but she was due for a break.
He handed her his untouched plate and said, “You can have my dinner. There’s only a bite missing.
Don’t worry, I’ll still pay for it. Conti men aren’t freeloaders.
” Later, as we drove home, he kept repeating that the veal was disgustoso.
Disgusting. Ma eventually told him to get over it, but the second we arrived home, she whipped out her frying pan and made him her famous Veal Piccata.
Ever since then, I’ve equated food with love.
“You started without me?”
“Alex,” I said, standing. I expected her to come in riding a pony considering the way she let herself into my house. “You look... stunning.”
She was ethereal in a red, tulle, floor-length dress.
Delicate gold hoops adorned her ears. It matched the thin, gold chain she was wearing around her neck that sparkled like stars.
Her hair was secured on both sides, and on her lips, she wore the kind of smile that could haunt a man’s dreams. What truly captivated me, were her perfect imperfections: the strands of gray in her hair, a beauty mark by the ridge of her nose, and a small scar in the shape of an “L” on her forehead.
Masterpieces aren’t flawless, they resonate with different meanings.
“Please. Let me,” I said, pulling her chair out for her.
“No one’s ever done that for me before. Is this dress too fancy?” she asked, looking around the restaurant.
“Not at all. You’re enchanting.”
“Good, because the thrift store made a whole fifteen bucks off of me today.”
She was charming and making it difficult to concentrate on the speech I’ve been rehearsing. “Wine?”
“Sure.”
While I was pouring the wine, the waiter returned with our menus.
Before I could ask her what she was craving, she surprised the hell out of me.
“I was an accident,” she said, reading her menu.
“Dad didn’t want me. Neither did mom. As soon as I was old enough to take care of myself, they moved to Florida. ”
“I’m so sorry, Alex.”
“It’s fine,” she said, sipping at her wine. “That’s why I started writing. My characters are my family.”
“Why’d you stop writing?”
“I’ve always wanted to come here,” she whispered to herself. “Cheers,” she said, poising her glass in the air.
“Cheers.”
Before I could ask again about her reasons for quitting writing, the waiter brought us a complimentary bottle of sparkling water and two crystal glasses. “Do you need more time to decide?”
“What’s your name?” Alex asked him.
“Vito.”
“Hi, Vito. I’m Alex. I have a question since most of this is in Italian. Do you have rabbit?”
“Coniglio. Si, signorina. Right here,” he said, pointing. “It’s slow-braised and then served in a whisky cream sauce.”
“Sounds delicious. I’ll have that.”
“Perfetto. And yourself, sir?”
“Wait. I wasn’t done.”
“Oh. My apologies, miss. Please continue.”
“I’ll take the Linguini alla Vodka, the Cioppino... that’s fish stew, right? I remember reading a recipe in Good Housekeeping.”
“Si.”
“I’ll take that, the Bistecca alla Fiorentina cooked rare, and I’ll start with the Arancini. Oh... and the Braciole. No, two. I’d like two orders of Braciole, please.”
The waiter looked horrified, but I fell in love just then.
Memories of big Italian dinners made their way to the forefront of my mind.
Sitting around the table was less about eating, and more of an event.
Over several courses, hearts connected, and I could feel my heart surge with pride.
Despite that, I teased her, like me and my cousins used to tease each other at every Sunday feast.
“Hungry?”
“Yeah. Is that okay?”
“Whatever the lady wants.”
“What would the gentleman like?” the waiter asked.
“I’ll start with the Caprese salad, and the Chicken Potacchio for my entrée. And another bottle of Chianti.”
“Subito, signore.”
“Thank you, Vito.”
“What does ‘subito’ mean?”
“Right away.”
“Gotcha.”
Alex was fiddling with her chain, and then Christ appeared from behind her neck. I didn’t realize that she was wearing her crucifix. I remembered her tattoo, and thought to ask her about it, but instead, I asked, “Have you had rabbit before?”
“I grew up with it. We hunted it ourselves,” she said, draining her glass. “It was a really small town.”
“How small?”
“Small enough that we drove riding lawnmowers to the bar. We figured we wouldn’t get stopped for drinking and driving if the cops thought we were on our way to mow lawns. Did you grow up here?”
“Me and everyone else I know. I have a pretty big family.”
“That must have been nice... never feeling alone.”
“Yeah. We didn’t need therapy. Fighting things out with each other was therapy.” I smiled inwardly because not all fights signify the end. Pop even said that people who vent live longer, and once the bad words evaporate in the air, they’re gone forever.
“Do you see your family often?”
“Sometimes at Christmas. It’s mostly me and ma, now.”
“You didn’t kiss me.”
“Kiss you?”
“Isn’t that how Italians greet people? You didn’t kiss me on both cheeks.”
I decided to assert myself. For the first time outside the ring, I decided to grab life by the throat.
“Stand up, Miss Adams.” Kissing her on both cheeks was not like kissing my grandmother.
Beneath my lips, I felt the softest skin.
Behind the fanciful rhythm of her breath, I heard desire. I had to pull away.
“You smell nice,” she said.
“Um... thank you.”
“Okay, Pip, let’s get this over with.” With those words, Alex made the world spin faster.
The waiter delivered our appetizers and excused himself for interrupting. Exactly what he was interrupting I wasn’t sure, because I asked her, “What do you mean?”
“The reason we’re here.”
“We’re here to have dinner.”
“That’s it?”
“I thought it would inspire the story if you got to know me better.”
Perry Como serenaded us with a love song. She grew quiet. I was still contemplating her statement while her eyes darted around our table. “I don’t have a spoon for the noodles.”
“What did you call them?”
“Noodles. The linguini.”
“It’s pasta. Not noodles.”
“Who are you? The language police?”
“No. It’s simply the correct way to say it. Like eggs.”
“You mean eggs.”
She was driving me mad, but in the best way possible. “No, eggs. Like how Fonzie says, ‘Ayyyy.’’
“No,” she said, laughing. “Eggs rhymes with ‘beg.’”
“Wait. Are you American? You said your parents live in Florida.”
“I’m not. They just wanted to get as far away from here as possible. How’s the salad?”
She wore a sad expression, but I chose not to focus on it. I only wanted to make her smile and fix whatever was broken. “Delicious. This place only uses vinegar from Modena. How’s the Arancini?”
“Not bad. I like the gooey cheese inside. Would you like a bite?”
“Thanks, but I’m supposed to watch what I eat.”
“But you’re drinking wine!”
Her laughter made my lonely heart swell. “It’s in my veins. I drank wine before I could eat solid food.” Leaning across the table, I added, “It’s our little secret, though.”
“My lips are sealed,” she said, causing me to stare at her heart-shaped mouth.
“Excuse me, miss. What would you like for your starter course?”
“The noodles,” Alex said, looking directly at me.
The family of three was leaving. Even a five-year-old kid was better behaved than my dinner companion.
The little girl wore a sparkly headband.
She stopped and placed one finger on her chin, contemplating if Alex should be her new best friend.
She skipped away, but not without another glance in our direction.
“You mean the Linguini?” Vito asked her.
“Yes.”
“I understand. Grazie.”
The waiter cleared our appetizer dishes and winked at me to quietly say, “What the hell are noodles?” Alex didn’t notice.
“How’s Nick?” she asked me.
“He’s still in the doghouse.”
“Good. If he was my husband, that’s where I’d put him too. When do you fight again?”
“In ten days.”
“Are you nervous?”
“It’s the nature of the game. If a boxer is too cocky, he’s sure to lose.”