Misconstrued

As I walk, I can’t help but notice the age of the cobblestone at my feet. Most of the red and gray brick is splintering. This creates uneven points in the road. A bell from the local basilica begins to toll defiantly. Its knock radiates to the ground. It grabs the attention of everyone in its path. This startles a large group of nearby pigeons. They begin to flap in unison. The cascading sound resonates across the piazza. I instinctively shield my face from potential harm. The whirlwind of birds flies a short distance before landing across the street.
Arriving at Agata e Romero, its quaintness warmly greets me. In the front, sit three tables, each adorn with cloth, blood orange in color. Large white plates with matching napkins contrast topside. Their backdrop: a series of intersecting white-trim paneling, each frame a thin pane of glass; the foundation is made up of earth-tone brick and indigenous rock that rises halfway up the structure. Hanging baskets of multi-colored geraniums attract the patrons.
I open the door to find the interior poorly lit; oil lanterns sit on the tables and lamps hang from the walls. White Italian silk envelops the table with white porcelain eatery neatly on display. Crystal wine glasses are the focal point of the table. The chairs are straight-back and allow no give or slouching. Vintage wine bottles from local vineyards, varying in color and age line the walls.
I approach a tall man in black pants and a white dress shirt. His posture and welcoming smile tell me that he is the host.
“Ciao” I begin.
“Bion Giorno” he replies.
“I am looking for my girlfriend.”
“Scusi?”
I wave my hand to nullify our conversation. He waves back. I smile. A familiar voice calls out from behind me.
“There you are” she says sharply.
She yanks at my arm and pulls me to the corner of the restaurant. We enter through an archway and into a private sector. A roaring fireplace sends heat to our extremities. I pull open my chair and seat myself. I look across the table. Isabella snarls her lip. She then pulls out her own chair. Isabella slams down her purse that reads “D&G.”

The man that once met my reception instantly transforms into our waiter. He pulls out a pen.
“Isabella points at the menu and holds up two fingers.
She utters the word “due.”
The waiter departs as another approaches with a bottle of wine.
“Si, prega” says Isabella.
I wave my hand.
“No. Lemonade for me.”
“Scusi?”
“Eric, this is a bottle of 1875 Terre Forte from the vineyard of Montepulciano de Abruzzo near Venice and you want lemonade?”
She whispers to the waiter. They both give me an odd look. They share a smirk as he departs.
“What did you order” I ask.
As I finish the sentence, a waiter brings over two plates and places them in front of us.
“Just try it” she scoffs.
On my plate stands a cube of some sort. On top it has a grainy, ground coffee texture. That substance also dusts my plate. Swirls of chocolate compliment the plate. It’s the only thing not alien to me. The aroma of coffee fills my nose.
“Coffee” I inquire.
“Expresso” she replies.
Three forks lie before me. I pick the outside one.
Isabella sighs.
“Wrong fork. It’s the inner fork.”
I switch forks. I press the fork into the square. It slides easily through all the layers; first through the top shell and then into the pale-hay substance that makes up the base. I slide the fork into my mouth. My tongue tries to find its way through the fluffy, delicate, texture. The creamy butter coats the inside of my mouth. It starts out sweet but is quickly cut by an essence of bitterness.
“What do you think” asks Isabella.
I pause.
“It tastes like baby food. Are you trying to imply something?”
“Yes. You are a baby. You have no appreciation fine things. You didn’t comment on my Versace dress or my Manolo Blahnik shoes. You are drinking lemonade in Italy.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I think that it’s obvious.”
She turns her head away and stares at an oil painting on the wall.
“What is it” I ask.
“That’s ‘Waterlilies’ by my favorite contemporary artist, Mario Zampedroni.”
“Oh.”
I begin to study the piece intensely.
“What” Isabella abruptly asks.
“I like the colors. The blue hue that the artist uses here to illustrate the water is the same as the sky in “Starry Night.”
Isabella sits up.
“You know of Starry Night?”
“Yeah, by Vincent van Gogh. I once saw it at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. It’s beautiful.”
Isabella smiles.
“What” I ask.
“Go get my coat and we’ll take dessert to go.”