Dinner for One in Montecarlo

The cook at Eva’s hotel did not speak English or German or Dutch. He was Italian. He spoke with his heart and his hands. There is a wonderfully uninhibited and playful nature to the Italian attitude towards sensuality, sexuality, attraction to each other. The women of a certain age will throw it out there like a wide net, and the fishing is easy. The men are not shy in expressing their appreciation for fine lines and curves nicely displayed or the right attitude. Presentation counts for fifty percent in the judging. The men will whistle, applaud, shout, and beg – no, the begging was me.

The cook at Eva’s hotel, remember this is a story about the cook at Eva’s hotel, was a charming Italian shark. I didn’t understand most of what he said but he made you smile. One night I watched him appear moments after Eva sat a lone, attractive woman at the table across from me. There was blood in the water and Carlo the cook followed it into the dining room and literally ran into Eva as she was trying to escape. He held onto her and kept her so that she could translate. There was a look of humorous exasperation on her face. She has done this before. She tried to pretend she was upset but you couldn’t be upset with Carlo. She joined the Italian opera, without the bad Italian opera music, unfolding before a crowded room and translated for the vocally kinetic Carlo.

Eva and the woman, who I later learned was a German named Sabina, spoke Dutch. Sabina had grown up a few miles from the Dutch border and was fluent in Dutch and English but knew less Italian than I did. However, she didn’t need a translator to understand Carlo. The whole room understood Carlo.

He made her something special, off the limited menu. He made her several specials. When I left, I told Eva I was hurt and confused. Carlo never paid me the same attention he lavished on Sabina. I didn’t know why. One of the nice things about Eva was she picked up on my jokes without a translation pause. Or maybe she just laughed at me every time I spoke. Why should Italy be any different from America?

The next night, I told Eva to warn Carlo that there was a 300 pound German on her own in my hotel. She’d appreciate him for his true talent – cooking. And I was sending her over unless I started to feel appreciated. Eva was barely back in the kitchen with my message and Carlo was in the dining room. I don’t know what he was saying but he was flying around my table and the room and Eva was bent over laughing.

Then Sabina walked in. Eva must have said to Carlo, “Here we go again.”

The translation started but since there were no Germans, Eva translated in English so I could comment and throw jabs at Carlo. But he didn’t stay long. It was 3 on 1 and he decided to retreat to the sanctuary of his kitchen. Before Eva left us, I said once again that I get the menu and Sabina gets the special service – the good stuff from the private refrigerator. It was during this intermission in the opera that I got to know Sabina. She was down from the mother company for two weeks to check on some specialty paper production in their plant outside of Lucca. And yes, it was a nightly performance with Carlo. No, the performance did not have a final act upstairs in her room. She answered, I did not ask. But that seemed sad to me. I liked Carlo. He was like a young Kevin Kline, a twinkle in his eye and the bounce of a dancer in his step and quite the actor. “And one man in his time plays many parts.” Carlo had this part nailed.

He was back with the interpreter following in his noisy wake. This time he wasn’t at Sabina’s table, he was on his knees at mine. My “what now” look to the devilish Eva drew the explanation that she had told him I was again complaining about the lack of proper attention from him. And it would be wise if Carlo treated me well since I was going to be living in Maui and maybe I would want an Italian cook to visit me.

I heard the word “aloha” come out of his mouth. I told him that aloha, like ciao, meant hello and goodbye. In this case, it was bye-bye, Carlo. I made it quick. I cut with both edges of the sword. He was too late. Sabina had agreed to come to Hawaii with me. She jumped in and nodded. Nice ad-lib, Sabina. You won’t be an understudy for long. And Carlo, dear Carlo, we don’t need a cook in Hawaii. We’ll be living off coconuts, bananas, and tropical drinks with paper umbrellas.

It was like a death scene. Dinner and a play in Montecarlo. He milked the agony and cries all the way back to the kitchen. Bravo. Bravo.

I joined Sabina for the rest of our dinner. I don’t know if she suggested it or I asked. I know it wasn’t Eva or Carlo. But for dolce, we both got special chocolate cake, off the menu, in the shape of two little hearts. Carlo, he’s a pro.

Carlo thought he’d join us for an after dinner drink. But Sabina was tired and had work to do in her room. So, as Carlo sat down with three glasses and a bottle of grappa, Sabina was yawning and leaving the room. I’m sure this has played out before, but Carlo was like a puppy with no memory. He just watched her disappear around the corner with this little hurt, innocent expression.

As Sabina exited stage right, Eva entered, barely. She stopped and saw Carlo and me with our bewildered, lost looks and shook her head. She followed Sabina’s lead and left us to our momentary confusion. Life is just too complicated for men. Keep the play book simple.

With the women gone, Carlo suddenly realized he had a bottle in his hand. How did that get there? He poured two large shots. I lifted my glass and gave a toast. Seemed this male bonding occasion called for it, and I was trying to delay the actual ingestion of the disgusting grappa.

“A solo mio.”

“Solo mio, si,” he replied in an unusually subdued manner.

The grappa was biting and biter and entirely unsatisfying – like the evening was going to be. After a moment, Carlo raised his eyes and the bottle and then paused waiting for my response to his quiet question.

“Pour it. Pour it again, Carlo.”