To Rome With Love

Ristorante Farini, Rome March 1985

Ristorante Farini, Rome

March 1985Giorgio walked with Tamara to the other side of the piazza, stepping quickly between swerving taxicabs, and pointed out a little trattoria snuggled into the corner. They squeezed between the waist-high, arched metal bars that kept the cars from careening over the curb and wiping out the sidewalk crowd of thirsty customers.

A young waiter perched on the doorstep of the establishment called out to Giorgio and pointed to a small table for two on the edge of the café, and they slipped into the chairs.

“So, you're a regular here?” she teased.

Giorgio shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

“Italians like wine, and we especially like to enjoy it in the shade of a sidewalk café. And, yes” – did she detect a slight blush on his cheekbones? – “I come back to Ristorante Farini often.”

“My office is just over there,” he said with a wave of the hand. The gesture didn't indicate a particular building but sufficed to convey that he worked in the neighborhood.

Tamara ordered an Arneis from the Ceretto winery, he a Castello Volpaia Chianti Classico. The waiter who had hailed Giorgio reappeared quickly with both glasses, a shallow bowl of marinated olives both black and green and oiled with an oregano-scented oil, and a tall thick-walled tumbler filled with twisted breadsticks redolent of sesame and rosemary.

They sipped their wine and munched on the savory snacks while exploring more facts about their lives and plans. Giorgio had attended the Università di Firenze but was hired by a firm in Rome. He regretted leaving his beloved Florence – “the art, the architecture, and the gardens!” He said he missed all that.

“And the pretty ladies?” Tamara couldn't pass up the chance to tease him. His manner made it easy to assume a familiar way with him.

Another slight shrug and a smile. Giorgio looked down at the table, then back up into her eyes, and replied.

“Sì, but the ladies in Roma are also quite wonderful.”

She pondered his choice of “wonderful” over “beautiful.” It seemed to her that Giorgio was a man who would judge a woman on more than her skin, legs, and hair.

As the late afternoon wore on and night began to fall, they moved on to other wines. Giorgio was shocked that Tamara had never had Prosecco, a pleasant yet uncomplicated sparkling wine from northern Italy.

“I've tasted Asti Spumante,” she mentioned, “but that's too sweet.”

“No, no, no,” he said with a wagging finger. “Prosecco.” Then he turned to the waiter and repeated the word to him, adding “una bottiglia” – a bottle – of LaMarca.

Food followed the Prosecco, first crostini alla napolitana, a dish very much like bruschetta, but the bread slices are buttered first, then topped with mozzarella, diced tomatoes, anchovies and oregano before broiling. With their taste buds properly awakened, Giorgio ordered necci, a type of flatbread made from chestnut flour, topped with ricotta and chopped basil leaves.

The Prosecco died a happy death with those two courses, but Giorgio was not finished yet. Signaling the waiter with an upraised hand, he ordered a bottle of Vietti Barbera, telling Tamara that it was a luscious wine but not as dry or as robust – with that word, he acted out a weightlifter's pose – as the typical Italian red wines.

“For those who like white wine,” he said, “Barbera is easier to take.”

“I'm not a wimp,” she protested, and he laughed. “I mean, I drink red wine,” Tamara explained, “I just felt like a white wine first.” Then she was the one to laugh, a tiny bit embarrassed that she had resorted to self-defense. Or maybe she was a tiny bit high on wine. Or something.

Before the Barbera arrived, he ordered a bowl of giuget for each of them.

“They're little squares of dough, but not stuffed like ravioli,” he said, using his thumbs and index fingers to approximate the size. “Here, they toss them with oil, melted butter, herbs, and pancetta, sometimes sausage. You'll like it.”

Her head was swimming, either from wine, food, or these glorious descriptions of the dinner they were sharing.

That's when it hit her: She was having dinner with Giorgio; it wasn't just a glass of wine. They were so comfortable together that neither considered ending the event, so one glass led to another, and one plate of food led to another.

Before Tamara could protest – like there was any chance she would – the bottle of Barbera arrived and the giuget was served.