The other favorite was attending a nearby dinner party where Frannie serenaded us while being accompanied by an attending classical and jazz pianist named Luigi. Two days later (on my last night in the city), I was the star chef for some quality Italianas who own a vintage dress shop and Italianos (one of whom was a galleria owner and the other a member of the Policia Finanza), all dear friends of my Aunt, the opera singer Americana. We scoured the outdoor market and grocery store for the right ingredients and then I took over Frannie’s kitchen, complete with my previously-earned Zeppelin apron, filling her “little house” with the smells of garlic and rosemary and roasting chicken and wine and risotto (flavors of Orvieto unknown to palates of the north). One of the ladies who spoke a bit of English popped up to the stove and helped me finish off the risotto— what an honor! We had a mini Thanksgiving. They cleaned their plates at each course, offering thanks and encouragements of “brava” (one of my favorite sayings, it is much more glamorous than “good job!”) and “bellissima”; I was so touched by this twist of fate, in a land where their young women don’t know how to prepare a chicken or roll out pasta dough like their grandmothers were so wont to do. The night wore on late but couldn’t have gone better: everyone left with rosy flushes of wine and espresso in their cheeks, sadly asking if I had to leave them the next day and would I promise to return again soon. I think that I won a few hearts that evening, perhaps even a new valentine or two named Antonio. Their responses all stirred in me great tears of joy; it was a night to never be forgotten.
Perhaps a new year’s resolution will be to earnestly begin studying Italian for that great return one day ... Now I just hope that France is not too much offended that I have fallen hard for its neighbor.
