From Scratch: A Memoir of Love, Sicily, and Finding Home(8)
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 hospitality 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.