Enoteca Buccone, Rome
March 1985Giorgio donned sunglasses and Tamara shielded her eyes from the glare with one hand and searched her bag for sunglasses with the other. He looked left, then right, as if he was trying to decide what to explore next, then looked at his wristwatch.
“Ah, so, of course,” he said softly, almost to himself. He held his arm out for Tamara to take, and they turned right toward the street at the bottom of the steps that lead down from the basilica.
“I know a perfect little place for…what do you say in America? Lunch?”
She nodded, knowing that he had a good command of English but he enjoyed playing with her.
“Here it is called pranzo, sì?” she countered.
Giorgio's eyes brightened and his smile spread.
“Sì, yes, of course!” His voice carried a note of pleasure
