Page 98 of Dante

“Oh no,” I say, glancing at Dante. “Instead do you have wine in a jug inside the wicker basket?”

“Yes,” says the woman.

“I’d like that.”

As soon as she leaves us, Dante turns to me, an amused smile on his lips.

“I know you don’t understand wine, Gina, but that style of Chianti is rotgut. Attractive to look at the bottle in the rustic straw basket, but don’t dare drink it.”

I shrug. “I don’t care what it tastes like. I’ve seen those bottles in romantic movies. I want to see one on my table here with you tonight.”

Waiters quickly fill the table with small plates of food.

A few moments later, the chef arrives.

His white outfit is relatively clean, except for a red splotch of spaghetti sauce near his breast pocket. He’s old and craggy with protruding eyes and a big honker of a nose.

I start sketching him immediately.

“Please have a seat, Chef,” I tell him. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions while I sketch?”

He swallows and nods like he has no choice as he pulls the chair out.

“Of course, Mrs. Ricci.”

“When did you first start cooking?” I say, outlining his deep-set wrinkles. I pay special attention to his curiously shaped nose.

Imbued with a life of its own, the nose looks as if it’s been caught sniffing something suspicious.

I ask the chef a few more questions, but nothing in his words or face is very usable. His guarded expression will ruin the chef composition I have in mind.

Knowing Dante’s taking time out of his busy schedule to indulge me, I smile, thank the chef, and we make a quick exit.

The next restaurant is a little more upscale. The crowd younger and trendier, with more attention placed in the decor.

There are cloth napkins here, not just paper ones. The chef who comes to our table is young and self-assured.

His uniform is so spotless I’m curious whether he does any work in the kitchen at all. When I ask him about his upbringing and culinary school experience, he deflects my questions.

“None of that is important,” he says, sounding misinformed about the reason I wanted to see him. “If my image is to be the focus of your restaurant, I want to see the contract upfront. I want full creative control. And I’ll need to approve the advertising budget tonight before anything else.”

I clear my throat. “I was under the impression that this restaurant has stood at this location for more than one hundred years. That your grandfather ran it and his grandfather before him.”

“Correct,” he says with a dazzling Hollywood smile. “But the family that owns it recently sold to a corporation, and they hired me.”

That explains it.

We spend just a short time in the next three restaurants, each authentic in its own way.

It’s not until we enter the last restaurant of the evening that the chef who comes to sit at our table treats Dante with the respect he deserves.

Unfortunately, this chef doesn’t have the round jovial face I had hoped to find either.

What is it with these old Italian chefs and their gaunt features?

But this chef does have the bright brown eyes of my fantasy chef.

And when I ask him about his favorite recipes, his face comes to life.