“Nonsense,” says Vincenzo, “I want to sound as crystal clear as Kristoff by the time I am in America.”
“Kristoff?” I ask.
“FromFrozen!”
“Oh, right. Well, in that case, I’m happy to speak English with you as long as you throw an Italian phrase or two my way every now and then.”
Vincenzo lights up. “It would be my pleasure.”
Benito clears his throat. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled, then.”
I look at Vincenzo and we share a smile. “Izzy, here’s an Italian phrase:È un peperinodescribes someone who has a sunny disposition and is full of life.”
I look over at Benito, then back to Vincenzo. “Oh, I love it, so like. . .Benito, è un peperoncino?” I ask.
Benito rolls his eyes. Vincenzo laughs. “A+ on your first lesson, Izzy from California.”
We share a smile and I decide I love him. Benito sighs and opens the refrigerator, scanning its contents. “Since I have you both here,” I say. “I wanted to go into town for lunch, but I have no idea where to go.”When I was last here, I was a broke college student saving money for my postgrad dreams, so I exclusively survived off three-euro bottles of wine and jars of Nutella. This time will be different.
“Oh, Izzy,” Vincenzo says. “How exciting for you to try all of the food of La Musa for the first time. Every place more delicious than the last. Don’t you agree, my boy?”
Benito closes the refrigerator and nods, but it’s clear he’d rather be anywhere else. “Sure, of course.”
Vincenzo claps his hands together. “You should take Izzy to Trattoria La Buca.”
“I’m only on a quick break from work—”
“Oh no, that’s really ok—” Benito and I both answer quickly.
“Come on, Benito. Don’t let our American friend fend for herself on her first day in Italy.”
I look to Benito and can tell he’s calculating which one of the sixty different excuses that popped into his head to deploy. I interject, “It’s really fine. I like eating alone.”
“You cannot eat alone,” Vincenzo says. “I eat lunch with my wife. Every day for 20 years. . .” I think he’s tearing up again, but he stops himself. “Benito, you must take Izzy.” When neither of us move an inch, Vincenzo waves his hands and goes back to stirring. “Never mind, then. When I tell your mother about this, I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Benito takes in a long inhale. “Fine. Izzy, let’s go.”
Trattoria La Buca is a family-owned eatery with peeling wallpaper and cracks in the exterior wall, butlike much of La Musa, age can’t be a determination of quality. We sit at a small bistro table tucked into a corner. It’s dark and cozy inside despite the bright afternoon sun. If I weren’t with Benito, who’s lukewarm on me so far, I’d think this was a romantic setting.
“So, what’s good here?” I ask, knowing I’ll have to be in the driver’s seat if I want any semblance of conversation.
Benito scans the menu. “I don’t know.”
“Haven’t you been here?”
Benito shrugs. “You saw how at home my mother is in the kitchen, we didn’t eat out much.” A waiter comes by, and Benito orders a bottle of house red without consultation. He turns to me. “Do you drink?” I cackle so loudly that the only other people in the restaurant, seated a few tables away, glare at me. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says.
“Oh yeah. When I was. . .” I freeze for a moment, lest a slip of the tongue allude to my former life. “At my last job, it was a survival tactic.”
“When you were in the U.S. Congress?”
My heart drops. “Wha—? You know?” I feel the sweat start to slick on my palms. No wonder Benito immediately hated me. He knows.
“I recognized you when I met you yesterday.” Benito says it so casually, it’s like I quit my job at H&R Block after a storied 20-year tenure.
“So you know about. . .” I trail off. Benito raises his eyebrows. “Oh god.” He knows about the texts. He knows about the media frenzy that followed, myshaming in the public square, the scarletAon my chest. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
The waiter comes back, and Benito waits to respond until she’s poured each of us a glass of wine and left. “I figured you didn’t want to talk about it.”
