Page 77 of Two Chances With You

I leave fifteen euros on the table, and in a flash, we’re outside. I run into Angel, who says hello.

“Ciao, Step. It’s been a while.”

“Yes, yes it has. Later, maybe, I’ll swing back by.”

His real name is Pier Angelo. I can still remember him back in the day when he sold strange paintings to foreigners on Piazza Navona, improbable pieces of artistic flotsam and jetsam for even more improbable sums of cash, palmed off on a passing German or Japanese or American tourist. He’d spout a strange explanation in less-than-perfect English, butchered and completely invented, and he’d have placed another “package,” one more brick in the wall that would allow him to buy his restaurant, Angel’s, as in fact he finally did.

“Well? Is that it?” Gin asks.

“Don’t worry. I understand, you’re not interested in expending effort.” I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder.

“No, come on. What are you doing?” She laughs and tries to beat me, but she does it in a jovial fashion.

“I’ll carry you. As long as you promise not to ask any more questions.”

“Put me down!”

We walk past a small group of young women and men who gaze at us, more-or-less amused, dreamily the girls, embarrassed the boys. At least, that’s what I think I can read in their expressions. And we hurry on. Cul de Sac is the name of the next place.

“There, now you can get down. Here we’re going to enjoy an aperitif with cheese and wines.”

Gin tugs down her jacket, which had hiked up, as well as her T-shirt, which had uncovered her belly, soft but taut and compact without any strange piercings in the belly button.

“What are you doing, peeking? My little belly isn’t my best feature.”

Beautiful and insecure. “You mean to say there’s more?”

Gin huffs.

“I’m magnetically drawn, attracted, inevitably pulled into the maelstrom, and…”

“Yes, yes, okay. I’ve grasped the concept.”

We take a seat at the first table we see, and I place an order with a gentleman who is even wearing a white apron.

“Then we’ll have a bitter seasoned goat cheese and two glasses of Traminer.”

The guy nods, and I hope that he’s actually understood, given his uncertainty.

“Where did you read this thing about Traminer and goat cheese? Did your brother suggest it?”

“No, sorry, I took a personal course with a French sommelier. Actually, a Frenchladysommelier, to be exact. In Epernay, in Champagne country.”

The waiter sets down a wooden platter on the table and he nailed it: goat cheese and chilled Traminer. Incredible, and that’s not all.

“I brought you some organic honey as well.”

“Thanks.”

It’s nice to see someone who loves his work. But there’s nothing nicer than seeing a young woman who’s eating with genuine gusto. As Gin is. She smiles and spreads the honey over bread that’s still warm, fresh from the oven, lightly toasted, perfectly bronzed, not burned. She sets a chunk of cheese on top and takes a big bite, determined but slow, while with her other hand she wards off the freefall of crazed crumbs. Then she touches her palm with the tips of her fingers and, as if playing a strange little tune, lets the crumbs drop into the little plate, next to what bread’s left over, while with her other hand she takes the Traminer and, with a little sip, chases the whole thing down.

It’s perfect, I know that. Little tastings and morsels. What it all means I can’t say. But in reality, I do know. The Traminer goes down easy, chilled, with its aftertaste. Icy. One glass after another. And from the thoughts in my head, from the way I trip myself up, I realize that I’m already half-drunk. I wait for her to finish her last bite, I set some money down on the table, and I abduct her. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Where are we going now?”

“A different place for every single specialty.”

And we race away, just like that, a little wine, a little laughter. Surrounded by indiscreet glances, people at the other tables, heads turning in our direction to look at us, observe those two strangers…The two of us, meteors on any ordinary everyday night, in an ordinary everyday club, at a moment that’s anything but ordinary and everyday, a moment that belongs to us alone. As does this food tour.

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