Up & Out - Ariella Papa [18]
“Hi.” He gestures to the glass case and smirks. “Crabs?”
I laugh. He’s confident enough to make a bad joke and trust that I’ll get it.
“I know,” he says, “never on the first date. They’re setting up our table. Do you want something at the bar?”
“Yeah.” I’m about to tell him I want a gimlet, but he’s already ordered something from the bar. It’s a dark drink. It tastes different, but good.
“You like it?”
“Yes, it’s weird.”
“It’s liquor made out of artichokes. It’s one of my favorites. This bartender does it really well.” I am enjoying this already. We’re at the bar, having a drink, and soon we’ll have a delicious meal. He acts as into the food as I am. This is what it is to date in New York. Tommy thought going out like this was a waste of time and money. His idea of romance was going to the movies or trying to get me to play strip PlayStation. I am pioneering new territory: an adult man, with an adult job.
“What do you do again?” I ask when we’re sitting at our table. It’s clear that the maître d’ knows him by name.
“I’m a wine distributor to restaurants. Mostly Italian wine, occasionally Californian.”
“So, you must eat a lot of good meals.”
“I do.” He smiles. I forgot how nice his teeth are. “Do you like to eat out?”
I’m not sure if this is a trick question, or innuendo or what. “I like to go out to eat.”
“Cool.”
He encourages me to get a primo and a secondo. He doesn’t seem to want to accept that I wouldn’t be able to eat a first and second course. I order the spaghetti with tuna belly followed by the grilled octopus. It’s a lot of food, but I can’t resist the chickpea crostini that comes to the table. Because they know Seamus, we also get an appetizer of soft shell crab.
I can’t help making comparisons in my head. With Tommy, there was this kind of shorthand between us, where we could just hang out and not talk. Seamus has an intense, well-crafted opinion on everything. I am a little intimidated about expressing myself. I nod at him and try to figure out what the hell he is talking about. He keeps throwing matter-of-fact statements at me.
“I think you’re going to appreciate this wine. It is, dare I say, rousing.”
“That movie had merit, but at times, didn’t you find the music a bit too invasive?”
“Loved the CD, but his whole string obsession was downright jarring, don’t you think?”
I’m not sure if I should agree or disagree. I’m not sure how I feel. I haven’t thought about a lot of these things. Not having an opinion seems worse than either possibility. If I am going to get into this dating thing, I guess I have to start having opinions. I’m not going to find a guy like Tommy, who has experienced everything with me already. It is “dare I say,” daunting.
“Do you like your spaghetti?” he asks.
“I think so.” He grins. I feel more confident. “Yes, absolutely.”
“You know I forgot your eyes were green.”
“Thank you. I mean, you did?” I’m not an asshole, really I’m not.
“Yeah, they’re lovely. You’re welcome. Do you want to try my pasta?” Yes! Yes! Yes! I nod. I think I am really attracted to him. I can stand behind that opinion. “Can I try yours?”
We switch. I watch him taste my pasta, paranoid he’ll hate it and declare my palate “downright immature.” He chews, closing his eyes.
“Pepperoncino,” he says. “You can really taste it.”
He is one of those. Kathy’s fiancé, Ron, is one of those. It must be indigenous to the New York male. They like to identify every ingredient in what they think is a good meal. He opens his eyes. They weren’t so bad, either.
“I like you,” he says. “I can’t wait to try your fish.” Of course.
The place is called Esca, after all. That means bait.
4
Moon Child
We are back at Seamus’s place. We are drinking wine—one of his favorites. He is telling me something about tannins. I think. He is saying things like “jumps in your mouth,” and I’m not quite sure what we are talking about. I am beginning to feel like he doesn’t need me to be a part of the discussion, like he has already determined how the whole conversation should go and I’m his audience.
I