Читать книгу What Love Tastes Like - Zuri Day - Страница 12

The maitre d’ smiled broadly as Nick entered the warm and cozy foyer. “Dominico, mio amico! Benvenuto di nuovo a AnticaPesa. Come lei è sono?”

“Buono, grazie,” Nick answered, before switching to English for Tiffany’s benefit. “Very good, in fact. It’s been far too long since I’ve been here, but I see you are managing well without me. The place is full, as usual.”

“Too many customers,” the maitre d’ admitted, his English punctuated with a lyrical accent. “But that is a good problem to have, no?”

Nick placed a hand at the small of Tiffany’s back and guided her forward. “My friend, Ms. Matthews,” he said, his voice smoky and possessive. “Tiffany, this is Rolando.”

The maitre d’s eyes widened in appreciation. “Bella donna,” he gushed, bringing Tiffany’s hand to his lips and kissing it gently. “It is my pleasure to feast upon such exquisite beauty.”

Tiffany released a self-conscious giggle as Joy’s voice swam into her consciousness. “Italian men love Black women,” she’d said as Tiffany modeled the dress. “You might get ravished by a ravioli-eating—”

“Grazie,” Tiffany answered softly, speaking the word she’d heard Nick say earlier, that obviously meant thank you. It was her first foray into Italian, and a blatant attempt to turn her thoughts away from the sexually oriented conversation that had preceded Joy’s comment.

“Prego,” the maitre d’ responded as they reached Nick’s reserved table. “Should we start with your usual wine, sir?”

“No, I think we’ll go for something a bit more celebratory. It’s Tiffany’s first visit to Rome.”

“Ah, then let me send the sommelier to discuss an appropriate choice for you and the giovane donna.” The maitre d’ smiled at Tiffany, nodded at Nick, and walked away.

Tiffany tried not to gawk. The last thing she wanted to do was to come across like a country bumpkin who’d been nowhere. But after a few seconds, her attempt at sophistication failed her. Because the truth of the matter was that she was a bumpkin, albeit a city one, who’d never been anywhere like this before. She looked from the beautifully set tables to the beautiful people occupying them, listened to the soft sounds of classical music providing the subtlest of backdrops for erudite conversations and, she imagined, more than a few declarations of love. The place oozed romanticism as well as wealth. Tiffany felt like Cinderella, her crystal-covered sandals as close to a glass slipper as Tiffany needed. She only hoped her dress wouldn’t disintegrate at midnight, unless it was at the hands of the prince sitting across from her.

Nick sat back and watched Tiffany. Her unsophisticated wonder captivated him, made him feel good. Her energy was so unlike Angelica’s, who’d become bored with Rome and increasingly unappreciative of the city’s cuisine. “I’m not crazy about it,” she’d said of Riatoli’s signature scallop dish, the one Tiffany had come to copy and conquer. But where Angelica had become jaded and taken life’s luxuries for granted, Tiffany soaked them up with the appreciation due them. Nick was overcome with the desire to be the one who introduced her to the finer things in life, to his world. He was about to tell her so when Tiffany’s eyes widened and dimples rippled with the smile that broke across her face.

One glance at her mentor walking in their direction and excitement replaced Tiffany’s nervousness. This was the man who was going to fill her with the knowledge that would bring her closer to her dreams. “Chef Riatoli!” she whispered, when he stopped at her table.

Chef smiled at her but addressed Nick first. “Signore Rollins. It is my pleasure.”

“As always, Emilio, the pleasure is mine.” Nick looked at Tiffany and ignored the stab of jealousy that arose at the adoring way she stared at Emilio. “I believe you know my dining companion, Tiffany Matthews?”

“Indeed I do,” Chef Riatoli said. “It is a thoughtful student who tests the dishes she’ll attempt to master.” He finally turned to Tiffany. “Welcome to Roma.”

“Thank you, Chef. I hope you don’t mind my coming to your dining room instead of the kitchen on this first visit.”

“In the company of one of my best customers? Never!”

Chef Riatoli and Nick conversed a moment more before the sommelier joined them to discuss the wine list. “I’ll leave you to this expert,” Chef Riatoli finished. “But may I suggest the veal for your main course tonight? It’s exquisite, grown especially for our kitchen.”

“We’ll take your suggestions for the entire meal,” Nick countered easily. Before turning to the sommelier, Nick looked at Tiffany. “Do you prefer sweet or dry?”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” she concluded honestly. “You decide.”

Nick and the sommelier settled on a Dom Perignon Rosé, to start, as the waiter brought out a basket of focaccia, fresh from the oven. The flat bread was golden brown, topped with fresh tomatoes, basil, and olive oil, and a bowl of red caviar.

Over the next two and half hours, Tiffany learned about the man named Dominique “Nick” Rollins and ate the best food she’d ever tasted in her life. In between the perfectly cooked scallop appetizer, raw oysters on the half shell (which Tiffany loved, to her surprise), smoked mozzarella salad, and the palate-cleansing chilled celery soup, Tiffany learned about Nick’s latest venture, a boutique hotel, and their shared dream of owning a five-star eatery with a three-star Michelin rating—the highest rating awarded by this industry bible, and a difficult score to achieve. During the fifth and sixth courses, braised monk-fish followed by the medium-rare veal that tasted like ambrosia and melted in their mouths, Nick learned that Tiffany was an only child with an independent streak, a college graduate with a near four-point average, and a delicious mix of contradictions—a feisty woman with a childlike need for the security of a twenty-three-year-old teddy bear. While not spending much time talking about her parents, Tiffany showed open admiration for her grandmother, who’d encouraged her love of cooking. The food Nick and Tiffany ate was accompanied by a chilled Chardonnay, and later a mellow Cabernet Sauvignon. Though she’d only had one glass of each, Tiffany was feeling as warm and fuzzy as Tuffy by the time dessert arrived. The gelato-based treat was a Chef Riatoli original, and the alcohol Tiffany had consumed was the only logical explanation for how Nick’s caramel-covered finger, which he’d dipped in the sweet masterpiece, ended up in her mouth.