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He begins to talk to me in Italian and I gesture to Beauty. "English, please," I murmur.
He glances at Karma, then at me, "The usual, Capo?"
"For me, yes. For her…" I tilt my head, "She’s allergic to seafood."
"SpaghettiAglio Olio e Pepperoncinofor the lady then," he states. "And a carafe of the house white?"
"Please." I nod as Karma opens her mouth, likely to protest. But Paulo has already turned to leave.
"Before you ask," I turn to her, "there is no menu here. You get whatever Paulo has made for the day."
"Huh?" She blinks, "So he decides what you are going to eat?"
"He’s the expert, and whatever he cooks is the best you can find in the city on that day, so yeah, you get what he’s cooked."
She takes in the tables and chairs in the small space, all packed to capacity. The dining hall opens onto the sea on one side. On the other is the kitchen, open to the guests, so you can see the chefs cooking while Paulo assembles the plates behind one of the counters.
"You come here often?" she asks with her head still turned away.
"Often enough."
"Is Paulo a friend?"
I chuckle. "That asshole is nobody’s friend."
"So why do you come here, then?"
I tilt my head, "You still don’t get it, do you?"
"What?"
"The food, Beauty, the food."
She scowls, "Still, you could have, at least, let me ask him what the options were."
I simply shake my head. "That’s not how it works."
"What do you mean?"
"Firstly, you don’t get a choice. You eat what he gets you. Secondly, even if there were a choice, I would have ordered for you."
She gapes. "Is that presumptuous, or what?"
"Be thankful I allowed you out of the house on this outing." I smirk.
"Big-bloody-deal," she murmurs under her breath.
"What did you say?"
"I meant," she clears her throat, "thank you." She coughs.
"That’s what I’m talking about."
Just then, Giorgio arrives with our food. He places a plate of the Vongole in front of me and theAglio Olioin front of Karma. He pours the wine into glasses, then sets out glasses of water, and fresh bread with a little receptacle containing olive oil. "Buon Appetito." He steps back, then leaves.
The scent of the pepper, parmigiana, and the intense fresh aroma of the vongole permeates the air. My mouth waters. I reach for my fork, twirl the pasta and take a bite. The plump, briny taste of the clams fills my mouth. The fresh pasta crowns the experience. I break off a piece of the fresh bread, dip it in the white wine sauce, and pop it inside my mouth. So fucking good. A groan rumbles from my chest. I glance up to find her staring at me. She hasn’t touched her food.
"Eat," I gesture to her spaghetti.
