As Tall, Fair, Handsome and I walked over the Ponte Vecchio to the restaurant, I took inventory of his clothes: Two thousand dollar suit, Gucci shoes, Italian Murse (European man’s purse) and perfect grooming from his hair to his manicured nails. And impeccable manners. Too good to be true? Or perfect con artist?
If he wasn’t CIA, FBI or a jewel thief, maybe he was some sort of Count or Duke and heir to his country’s throne. I shook my head at my ridiculous scenario. It was becoming the stuff that romance novels are made of.
But, he certainly was a curiosity indeed. Our table was in front of a loud jazz trio. I couldn’t help but smile at the irony. Here I was in an ancient city like Firenze, listening to modern jazz. It was such a dichotomy: the old combined with the new. I just loved it.
The waiter came by and gave us menus. Since we were in Tuscany, we both decided to order the Tuscan soup.
When it was placed in front of me, I was certain the waiter brought me the wrong dish. I looked into the bowl and saw dry stewed vegetables with cooked bread. What’s the deal? No broth? It’s called soup-not stew; it was delicious and hearty, but there was no way I could finish it and then have dinner, too. So, I just had a taste and watched TFH finish his.
The waiter returned. He looked into my full bowl of dry soup and then into my eyes. “What, you no like?”
“Oh, no, I loved it.”
“You no finish it. You too skinny. You should eat. Eat!” he emphasized.
Gosh! He’s worse than a Jewish mother. My mother could take lessons from him.
“It’s delicious but a little too filling for me. “Don’t forget,” I said with a laugh, “I still have dinner and dessert to tackle.”
With a pained look on his face, he removed the plates and walked to the kitchen.
I shrugged my shoulders at TFH. I’m not a big eater, but I eat frequently much to the chagrin of my friends who gain weight at the mere sight of a rich dessert. Hate me if you like. Even the Italians weren’t thrilled. But, I can’t help it. I’ve got great genes and a wickedly fast metabolism.
The band set up as dinner was being served.
We both had a savory fish fillet, stuffed with zucchini and potato. Green Dolphin Street, was the first number. For a trio, they were dynamic. I tried to make conversation with TFH, but as my voice began to crescendo above the music, the band finished, leaving my vociferous words hanging in the air for the entire restaurant to hear. I was so embarrassed.
I wondered if he reserved this particular table because it would inhibit talking and questioning with the loud music being played. Coincidence?
No comments:
Post a Comment