Another Little Taste...

This is a story from Ephemera, a collection of short works that was published in 2021, both in paper and Kindle editions. It’s sort of a true story—which is to say that about 1% of it is true.

Let’s face the facts: 1% is more than anyone should expect from someone who has been known to hide behind the alias “Dr Sanscravat.”

An Italian Tale

We received a phone call from our kid yesterday morning, from Italy. He didn’t say where he was, but told us that he was about to get on a bus—and he would call us back in an hour. Through the traffic noise in the background, The Wife could hear a young woman’s voice.

He called back, just as I was leaving for work. This time I was able to pry some details from him. He was in Naples, headed for Sorrento. He’d been to Pompeii the day before. I guess we’ll have to wait for his e-mailed account to get many more details about that part of his trip.

I was curious about the feminine voice, however—and when suitably pressed, cajoled and threatened—he broke down and told me about his new friend, Donatella Abbondanza. I shall refer to her as “Donna” to reduce wear and tear on the two fingers with which I type.

He ran into Donna in the mercato orto fruticolo, a vegetable market. Using a little broken Italian (and a lot of gesturing—with which he thought he could add a note of authenticity to his awkward words), our son was able to get the attention of this Neapolitan beauty. Somehow, he discovered she was a vegetarian, an almost cosmic coincidence—great romances having been built on flimsier beginnings.

Making the most of the family charm, he managed to get himself invited to dinner.

He started to tell me about an annual miracle in Naples—a vial of saint’s blood that is mystically liquified each year. I suspected he was trying to divert me from my real questions with these tasty tidbits of hagiographic lore—but I managed to steer him back to the subject. The Wife always complains that I never ask the right questions—that is, I never ask the kinds of questions she would ask.

I do not think that I have let her down, this time.

Before his dinner date, he had found time to visit the Castel dell’Ovo, a 12th-century castle on a tiny island in the Bay of Naples, connected to the city by a narrow causeway. From the castle, he could see wisps of almost white smoke at the top of the volcano, drifting lazily away toward the east. Fishing boats rocked gently in the onshore breeze, the curve of their sails mimicking the great curve of the beach.

Donna had a little apartment in the shadow of the Cathedral of San Gennaro. Along the way he picked up a bottle of Lacryma Christi Bianco. From the terrace of her tiny flat, he couldn’t see the bay, but could feel the soft breeze from it. He stood on her terrace, listening to the evening sounds—family noises, Radio Italiano, a dog barking, the softly echoed click of bocce balls around the corner, a voice somewhere, singing “Funiculi’ funicula”—while she prepared what looked like seitan, lightly breaded and sauteed in garlic-scented olive oil, dressed with capers and a little lemon juice.

They drank some of the wine.

Donna’s cooking, as he supposed, was marvelous—never in his life had simple vegetarian fare seemed so satisfyingly complex, with a tender chewiness that provided a kind of closure that was always missing in his meals—’though he had never noticed missing it before. Was this some regional specialty—some enchantment, never to be tasted again after leaving Italy? He was beginning to regret not having offered to help while she was cooking—how was he ever going to recreate that dish?

He drank some more of the wine.

He could not tell if it was the food itself—or the food as part of the whole experience—but he was totally captivated by it. If only he could find a way to ask her for the name of that marvelous dish. If only he could take his eyes off this voluptuous cook—he might be able to gather his thoughts, collect his rapidly dissipating powers of reason—he might be able to ask her. He might be able to rescue some portion of the evening for the forces of reason. He might be able to save some part of this magical Neapolitan night forever.

He drank some more of the wine.

Ask what—there was something he wanted to ask, wasn’t there? He was finding it difficult to think of anything but the way her silk blouse—a soft ultramarine, the exact color of the waters off toward Ischia—trembled when she laughed. What was she laughing about? He had no idea—but hoped he would somehow be able to keep her laughing forever.

By morning, the wind had shifted slightly, and a faint whiff of sulfur could be detected, wending its way from Vesuvius, through the ancient meandering streets of Naples, to the bay. Voices still carried over the terrace from the cobbled streets. Donna had gone out to pick up some pane, but had left her recipe lying on the table.

He had a slight headache, and he couldn’t find his glasses, but he could just make out the words at the top of the page, “Vitello al Limone.”