From Scratch Page 3

  “Sì, of course, I am off tomorrow.” It was effortless with him. “My friend is editing a film at a studio near the duomo. You like film and acting, no? Do you want to stop by the editing room and then have lunch?”

  Had I also mentioned that I dreamed of one day becoming an actress?

  “Yes, I do. Acting is also a part of my studies back in the States.”

  “I will meet you at Piazza del Duomo tomorrow morning. Eleven o’clock?” With that he released the brake on his Vespa, and I stood in perfect stillness as I watched his figure recede into the crowd as he headed across the Ponte Vecchio.

  The next day, snow fell in Florence for the first time in more than a decade. I parked my spit-polished crimson bicycle at the edge of Piazza del Duomo, retrieved my backpack from its wicker basket, and made my way to the cathedral steps. That morning Florence was in a state of wonderment and scurry. Children, enchanted with the large sloppy flakes, stuck out their tongues to the sky as their parents drifted into and out of coffee bars, murmuring in disbelief at the snow. Florentines donned helmets to shelter them from the gentle flurries as their mopeds left tracks on cobblestoned streets. Even the buses took extra time to load and unload passengers, and the street vendors had all taken cover.

  On the steps of the duomo, I positioned myself in front of Ghiberti’s voluminous bronze cathedral doors and waited for Saro. Behind me the cast relief figures from the Old Testament appeared all the more stoic and timeless as the snow grazed their frozen forms. Then I watched as the snow fell further and melted away as it landed on my scuffed boots, the chill of the marble steps beneath me penetrating the soles of my feet. I felt barefoot. The clock struck 11:00 a.m. My date was late.

  By 11:15 a.m., my hat and coat were soaking wet. Of course I had taken our meeting time as an exact thing. Had Italy taught me nothing? Punctuality was only relatively important, time was always approximate. I reached into my bag to see if I had anything to eat. I looked across the piazza to the people seated inside sipping cappuccino and pounding back espresso. I began to wonder if this date would end like the less than perfect romances I had had since arriving in Italy months earlier. Just the thought made me want to get onto my bike and head back to my tiny new apartment in Piazza del Carmine.

  Twenty minutes was more than even I could bear in the cold—picture postcard or not. I didn’t have classes that day, but I did have a shred of common sense. The last thing I needed was to catch pneumonia while waiting for someone who clearly wasn’t coming. So I pulled my coat tighter and tried desperately to remember where I had misplaced the gloves my grandmother in East Texas had sent. I brought my fingertips to my mouth and gave a hearty blow to warm them up. Then I took the duomo steps, two at a time, back toward my bicycle. What kind of guy gives you a bike and then stands you up for a first date?

  Blinking snow from my eyes, wondering what on earth could have happened, I pedaled my way back across the Arno to my apartment.

  An hour later, I looked out the window of the penthouse apartment in Piazza del Carmine. It was too late for breakfast, the only type of food we kept in the house, and I was too worried to go out for lunch. I wanted to wait for Saro’s call. I knew it would come. I would have bet my life on it. I felt as though I knew him. Well, I didn’t really know him, but I knew his heart. Surely something serious must have happened for him to have stood me up.

  Then I heard a ringing. I slid across the marble floor at breakneck speed to be the first to grab the communal phone that hung on a pillar in the center of the living room.

  “Mi dispiace. Sorry. I am sorry.” Saro’s voice was sped up, urgent.

  “What happened?”

  Silence.

  “I overslept.” Then, in rapid fire, “Robert Plant came to the restaurant last night. I made dinner for him and the band after his show. They didn’t leave until two in the morning. I got home at three. I am sorry. Would you care to meet me again in the center? We can still have lunch, no?”

  “I have a class in an hour and a half. I don’t think so,” I lied. I wasn’t exactly sure why, except that the idea of going back out into the cold didn’t appeal. Maybe I wanted him to come to me.

  “I will take you to your class, and then I will wait for you.”

  “That’s not necessary.” I now regretted my earlier lie. Hadn’t I played hard to get enough with this guy?

  “Then come to the restaurant tonight. I will make you dinner.” Before I could respond, his voice broke with sincerity. “Please, come. Invite a friend, if you please. It would be my pleasure.” Then he paused. “I think we could be something great.”

  No one had ever said anything like that to me. Those two words, “something great,” jolted through me like a lightning bolt. He conjured a vision of an us and greatness so effortlessly that it suddenly seemed as right as butter on bread. I was taken aback by his boldness, his certainty. He was inviting me into a vision for my own future that until that moment, I didn’t even know I wanted. But as the words registered, I understood that there was no going back. Of course, yes, I wanted something great, and maybe, with him, I could have it.

  “Va bene,” I said, quietly exhilarated that my destiny with greatness might just begin with a good meal.

  * * *

  Acqua al 2 was packed that night, people milling outside the front door, braving the cold and hoping for a table. I waited at the crowd’s edge, looking for my two exchange student friends Caroline and Lindsey. I had followed Saro’s suggestion and invited them, partly because I didn’t want to dine alone and partly because I was curious to see what Caroline and Lindsey thought of Saro.

  Lindsey, a lanky lacrosse jock from Mount Holyoke with a coif of red kinky curls that she called her “Irish ’fro,” was the first to arrive. “Que pasa, chica?” Her Italian was choppy and spoken with a nagging stutter, so she had a habit of using her other default foreign language, Spanish, to get by. It sounded equally distorted and hopelessly Anglo, but she seemed comforted that at least she was speaking a foreign language. “Caroline will probably be late—she’s walking from the other side of Boboli Gardens. You know she’s afraid to take the bus at night.”

  Of course, how could I forget? Caroline was a devout Southern Methodist who prayed every time she crossed the threshold of Italian public transportation. She had nearly been speaking in tongues on the three-hour speed boat ride we had had to take to get from the mainland to Stromboli. Of course she would be late.

  “Let’s go!” I said, turning toward the glow that came from inside the restaurant.

  Once in the narrow entrance, I made my way up to the hostess. Saro had told me to ask for her, Lucia. “Mi scusi.” She looked up, took one glance at me, and sprang from behind her station at the end of the dessert bar. The smile on her face resembled that of a cat, after eating the canary.

  “Sei la Tembi, no? Vieni. Come.” Then she cupped my face in her hands and kissed me twice on the cheeks. Apparently I needed no introduction. In a flash she grabbed me by one hand and led me into the heart of the dining room. Lindsey bounced along behind me.

  Lucia went before me in skintight Levi’s 501s, a tanned bottle blonde with Roman features, a smoky voice, and an infectious laugh. As owner and hostess, she orchestrated the front house of Acqua al 2 the way an opera singer commands center stage. With her firmly gripping my hand, we arrived in the heart of the dining room and she announced boldly, “È lei!—It’s her!” Then she pivoted on a dime, grabbed my face again, and said, “Saro make a table for you. You understand my English, no? I go get wine from the cellar, la cantina.” She pointed to a narrow set of cobblestoned stairs at the end of the dining room and promptly gave me another kiss. In a flash she was gone, leaving me in the center of the restaurant. It was like being back at the villa that first night in Florence. I had been put center stage with no idea as to what exactly to do next.

  Standing there in the main room, I could see why foreigners flocked to Acqua al 2. Its sampling menu and undeniable Italian hospitalit
y were just the beginning. Booths wrapped the circumference of the intimate candlelit dining room filled with communal butcher-block tables. It was the kind of place where upcoming Italian movie stars, indie musicians, leftist politicians, and veterans of the stage dined alongside tourists. Diners conversed over mouthwatering platters while bottles of wine—Montepulciano and Chianti Classico, lush Tignanello, and slender bottles of pale, fizzy Moscato—flew by at lightning speed. The scene was at once convivial, bibulous, and pure theater. Acqua al 2’s trademark paper placemats on each table had been designed by a well-known cartoonist. On them was an illustration of a waiter serving a steaming plate of pasta to lovers seated on a baroque proscenium stage. Above the curtain, the caption read, Love born in the theater will always continue. The place was 1,200 square feet of Florentine charm packed into frescoed walls, vaulted ceilings, and fifteenth-century arches.

  From my place at center stage, I could see Saro moving like a wizard behind a scrim of sizzling heat, orchestrating the clamorous clanging of pots; setting the pace and unfurling magic onto plates from Acqua al 2’s narrow, searingly hot kitchen. At first glance, the kitchen looked like Aladdin’s cave. There was Saro in a white T-shirt, floor-length apron, white clogs, and red bandanna with James Brown hollering out, “This is a man’s world” from a boom box in the background. Saro caught my eye, smiled, and signaled that he would be out later to say hello.

  “I think she has slept with him.” Caroline had finally arrived, and Lindsey was getting her up to speed moments later while we settled into our corner table downstairs in the cantina.

  “It’s none of our business.” But I knew Caroline thought Saro was every bit her business. She was a southern belle from SMU who wrote daily love letters to her high school sweetheart and donned gingham just for the hell of it. All indications were that she thought I was a man-hungry trollop who had yet to find Christ. I was sure she had been praying for my salvation from the moment we had landed on Stromboli and Rocco had laid me down on volcanic sand. But I also suspected she was the kind of girl who could spot the “boyfriend type” from a mile away. Given my track record in Florence, her opinion was worth putting up with evocations of Our Lord and Savior in even the most mundane conversations.

  “No, I haven’t,” I insisted. They seemed dubious.

  “Do we get a menu?” Lindsey asked as she saw a waiter bring an armful of platters to a nearby table.

  Before I could answer, Lucia was tableside, opening a bottle of white wine. “Cominciate col vino bianco.” As quickly as she poured, she was gone again. When she reappeared, she was carrying a single platter of what looked to be green risotto. The aroma reached my senses before my eyes could process what I was looking at. It smelled earthy, creamy, and woodsy with a hint of mint.

  “Risotto con sugo verde is first. Saro will to make you samples of the menu. Tutto menu. All of it.” I loved the way Lucia doubled down on verbs to make a point. The platter hit the table with a gentle bounce. “This is the first. Buon appetito.” With that she disappeared like a hostessing Merlin into the stone walls. The spell was cast, and I hadn’t even taken the first bite.

  I brought my fork up to my mouth and dived into what can only be described as epicurean heaven on a plate. Nothing in my repertoire of rice had prepared me for this. Each grain was soft yet firm at its core, melting delicately like textured velvet in my mouth.

  “Okay, this is way good,” Lindsey spoke first through a mouthful. “How do you know this guy again?”

  “He’s my bicycle thief, remember?” It was the nickname I had given Saro as homage to my favorite film of Italian Neorealism. It was also a reference to Florence’s black-market bike trade. I had come to learn that my shiny red bike with a basket and a bell—the gift that had turned the page in my friendship with Saro—was, in fact, probably stolen goods. Saro had bought it on the cheap the way everyone bought bikes in Florence. He had warned me to be sure to lock it. He also told me if it turned up missing he would search the city to find it. Then he would buy it back again.

  “I think you should really consider spending time with this man, even if he did steal a bike,” Caroline said, staring into the platter before scooping up the last remaining grains of risotto.

  “He didn’t steal a bike! He bought the bike.”

  “How do you know?” Lindsey asked with a wink. She was forever suggesting that Italian men had a predilection for danger. The idea of it thrilled her.

  “Because he told me so.” My irritation was thinly veiled because now I was focused on Caroline eating the last creamy cluster of risotto. When she finished, she licked her lips in a way that was self-satisfying and, dare I say, sexual. Her blue eyes closed slightly, and she uttered a full-bodied Uummm. She looked like a sinner at a tent revival who had just been saved by the laying on of hands. It was clear that Saro’s risotto was her culinary come-to-Jesus moment. After eating it, she had the glow of a new convert. I half expected a hallelujah to follow.

  “Is it wrong to ask for more?” she asked sheepishly.

  “Maybe you could ask Lucia to make you your very own plate?” For me, last bites are cardinal. Sharing Saro’s risotto with her was suddenly making me possessive. She was devouring that last morsel of my possibly soon-to-be chef boyfriend’s exquisite creation without the slightest act of contrition.

  Lucia returned again and again, with heaping plates of strozzapreti with braised red radicchio in a mascarpone sauce; fusilli in a fire-roasted bell pepper sauce; gnocchi with gorgonzola in a white martini reduction with shaved aged parmigiano. I began to see that Saro was speaking directly to me, each dish an edible love letter: succulent, bold. By the third and fourth courses, I accepted that this chef who wore elf boots was making love to me, and we hadn’t even so much as kissed.

  By the end of the dinner, I was in rapture, satiated, giddy, light-headed with the possibility that Saro was boyfriend material. I briefly considered a cigarette, though I had never smoked in my life.

  Caroline and Lindsey got up to leave sometime around 11:00 p.m. Lucia called them a cab because Caroline was in no position to walk all the way back home and Lindsey, well, Lindsey was ripped from three shots of dessert wine. As she left Acqua al 2, she made it a point to say good-bye to everyone in the restaurant, waving enthusiastically. “Adiós, muchachas. I love tiramisù,” she added as she nearly tripped at the base of the stairs. “I’ll be back, amigos.” With that she and Caroline fled into the night, leaving me alone in the cantina.

  Within moments, Lucia plopped herself next to me with another bottle of vin santo and that feline smile. I knew something was up. “Sei americana, no?” Florentines always suspected I might be Brazilian or Ethiopian. It sometimes seemed a little bit of a letdown when I said I was just a suburban black girl from Texas. Not this time.

  “Texas! Cowboys! Dallas!” Lucia said. Quickly I realized she didn’t mean the city, she meant the 1980s TV show, with JR. It was still in syndication in Italy. “I love JR and Beautiful.” Beautiful, I had learned, was the soap opera The Bold and the Beautiful. I had never seen it, but apparently most Italians had and often asked who was dating whom on the show. So for a moment I thought I had been cornered for a primer on American pop culture. But then Lucia inched ever so close to me and asked, “You like Saro, no?” It was more a statement than a question.

  “Sì, mi piace Saro,” I said in my best formal Italian. She wasn’t buying it.

  She leaned in closer. I could see the liner on her lips and smell a pack of Marlboros. “Sul serio, no?” Serio means “serious.” Even after a bottle of Chianti and sips of vin santo I knew that. She wanted answers. But before I could utter a word, she charged at me.

  “È bello, no? Beautiful. Saro is beautiful.” She cupped my face and made her final plea. “È un amico del cuore. Trattalo bene. È unico.—He’s my close friend. Treat him well. He’s one of a kind.” Then she was gone, the sashaying back pockets of her Levi’s the lasting image.

  I stood up, tingling with a kin
d of excitement I hadn’t ever felt, and began to make my way upstairs to the main dining room. The crowd had thinned some. It was now mostly Florentine locals dining in duos, but it was still lively. The grainy but wispy jazz vocals of Paolo Conte came through the speakers, the dessert case was nearly empty save a single portion of tiramisù. I blushed when I passed the kitchen to say good night.

  Saro smiled. “Did you enjoy it? I wanted to make you something that pleased.”

  “Yes.” He made me feel as though I could walk barefoot on hot coals.

  “Tonight has been busy, I could not come down to say hello.” He was unguarded, his ease alluring. “I’ll come by your school tomorrow.”

  “Sì.” Monosyllabic responses were all I could summon up. Then Saro reached out and gave me a kiss on the cheek. His skin was dewy, sheened with olive oil and perspiration. Our cheeks made a little suction sound when he pulled away, an audible marker that we had indeed touched. I was hoping we could leave it at that. One kiss was delightful. Two kisses just might do me in. He had already filled me with his food, his creativity. Now having to take him in the flesh—his eyes, nose, mouth, and gentle brow—made me rock back slightly on my heels. But no. He wasn’t done with me yet. He reached for the second cheek and whispered in my ear, “I am happy to do this again and again. Just tell me when.”

  I tumbled out onto Via dell’Acqua just after midnight, hypnotized by his skin, his food, how his hand had met the small of my back when we had said good-bye. I took the long route home, riding alongside the Arno River, always my favorite place to ride at night when the city was asleep. I rode across the Ponte Vecchio and stopped to look into the still waters of the river below. The bridge was lit in amber, and the waters reflected the night hues that shone from streetlamps and a smattering of windows.