“I told you it would be worth the wait.”
“Not that I can’t appreciate this, but two Michelin stars would have been just fine.”
“It’s three or nothing. What do you say, shall we go in or stand here and stare? I also reserved a visit to the cellar, I know you’re dying to look through their one hundred and fifty thousand bottles.”
“I wouldn’t set foot in there even if I was dead, or at least not without an insurance policy for third-party damages. If I tripped in these heels, I could destroy ten rare bottles that would cost me a lifetime of dishwashing to replace.”
“Thank goodness I’m here to hold you up, then.”
We enter arm in arm, as she observes everything with her chin lifted and her mouth half open.
“Good evening,” I say to the maître d’ when we reach the dining room. “We have a nine-thirty reservation for two under the name D’Arcy.”
“I’ll check right away.” He furrows his brow at the computer. “D’Arcy, you said?”
“Michael D’Arcy, yes.”
“For tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm.”
His tone is hardly reassuring, so I ask for clarification. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m afraid I can’t find your reservation, sir. Did you use the online form?”
“Yes.” To avoid issues with the signal, I went to Max’s bar. “I have a confirmation email here.”
“Can you show me, please? Maybe I can see what happened.”
I take my phone, open the email, and show it to him. “Here you are.”
He reads it and shakes his head. “It looks like you booked for two people at nine thirty, but for October tenth.”
“September tenth,” I specify. “Tonight.”
“No, 10/10 is a reservation for October tenth,” he insists, indicating the date on the email.
I stare at the maître d’, then at the phone, then back at the maître d’, and again at the phone.
Well done, assholeis the writing I imagine on the screen, accompanied by fireworks and the blaring of trumpets. I must have jumped ahead a month when I was booking. “Might you have a free table for two anyway? A last-minute cancellation, perhaps?” I ask, anxious that the perfect evening is going belly-up. I really wanted to make Elisa feel special.
“Unfortunately, we’re fully booked. I’m sorry for the mix-up, Mr. D’Arcy.”
I’m about to insist that they find us a foldaway table, but Elisa beats me to it. “No problem. We’ll see you on October tenth. We’ll find something else for tonight.”
“I feel like an idiot,” I say as we leave. “I’ve ruined everything.”
“You didn’t ruin anything. I know just where to take you. You’ll like it, even if we’re a little overdressed. You’ll just have to steady me for another ten minutes and keep me from falling on my face.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
We head down toward Lungarno, then turn onto a deserted street with a large crowd at the end.
“You don’t need a reservation here, but I assure you it’s as good as a Michelin restaurant,” says Elisa, pointing to a sign that says All’Antico Vinaio. “The most important thing is to understand where the queue begins and ends.”
“Are you sure you want to have dinner here?” I ask skeptically. It’s not really a place I’d associate with a romantic evening, rather the kind of place to grab a quick bite between one guided tour and another. Among the casually dressed patrons, the two of us stand out.
