Very Valentine

“We know.”

The bartender, wearing a coat and hat, leans in the doorway. “I’m leaving.”

“Thanks, Celeste. Say hello to Valentine.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says and goes.

“She’s lovely.”

“She’s married.”

“That’s nice.” Interesting. Roman makes a point that his pretty bartender is married.

“You’re a fan of marriage?”

“Good ones.” I slip up onto the clean work counter next to the sink. “How about you?”

“Not a fan,” he says.

“At least you’re honest.”

“Have you been married?” he asks.

“No. Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have children?”

“No.” He smiles.

“I hope you don’t mind that I ask questions like a census taker.”

He laughs. “You have an unusual style.”

“I’m not going for style. If I were, I would have discounted you when I saw you in the Campari T-shirt and the striped shorts that looked like the pantaloons the security guards wear at the Vatican.”

“Oh, so you have something against bright colors.”

“Not really. I just like to see a man wearing something besides action wear.”

Roman grates a wedge of aged parmesan over the risotto. “And, if memory serves, your outfit that night was spectacular.”

I turn the color of Saint Bruna’s ruby red stilettos.

He laughs. “Now why should you be embarrassed?”

“If I saw you naked on a roof, I’d pretend I hadn’t. That’s just good ma

“Fair enough. But let’s say I met you on the street and you were wearing a lovely dress like the one you have on tonight. Don’t suppose I wouldn’t be imagining what you’d look like without it. So I’d say we’ve just skipped a step.”

“I don’t skip steps. In fact…,” I blurt out, “I don’t go out with Italians.”

He puts the spoon down and takes the bottom of his apron, and using it as hot pads, lifts the pot off the stove.

“May I ask why not?”

“The cheating.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re kidding. You dismiss an entire group of men for something they haven’t done but you think they might do? That’s completely prejudiced.”

“I’m a believer in DNA. But let me explain this on a culinary level. About ten years ago, there were all these articles about soy. Eat soy, drink soy, and stop eating dairy foods because they’ll kill you. So I stopped eating regular cheese and milk and ate the soy stuff. Well, it made me sick but I persisted because everything I read said soy was good for me, even though my body was telling me it wasn’t. When I told Gram about it and she said, ‘At no point in our history did Italians ever consume soy. Cheese and tomatoes and cream and butter and pasta have been in our diet for centuries. We thrive on it. Get rid of the soy.’ And I did. When I started eating the food of my forefathers again, I felt like a million bucks.”

“What does that have to do with dating Italian men?”

“The same principle applies. Italian men have built thousands of years of romantic history on the notion of the Mado

“I’ve set a table for us.” He motions to the door. “Please.”

I follow him into the dining room, where the balloon shades in the front window have been lowered halfway. There must be fifty white candles of all different sizes and shapes placed around the restaurant, throwing sheer nets of pink light up the walls. Rows of flickering votive candles in etched crystal holders are placed in small stone alcoves under the mural, their tiny orange flames forming a choir.

I check my watch. It’s two o’clock in the morning. I rarely eat past seven. I haven’t been out this late since I moved to the Village. I can’t believe it. I’m actually having fun. I catch my reflection in the mirror, and this time, miraculously, no number elevens appear between my eyes. Either I’ve been transformed by the youth-enhancing steam facial from the risotto pot, or I like how this evening is going.

“Go ahead. Please. Sit down,” he says.

“This is beautiful.”

“It’s just a backdrop.” Roman places on the table a platter of delicate fried pumpkin blossoms that have been dipped in a light batter.

“For what?”

“For our first date. Lose the apron.”

I pull the apron over my head and drape it over the back of a chair at the next table. I unfold the napkin on my lap, and reach for a pumpkin blossom. I take a bite. The delicate leaf, dipped in this crispy batter, is as light as organza.

Roman goes back into the kitchen and comes out with a hot loaf of bread, wrapped in a bright white cloth, then returns to the kitchen.

While he’s gone, I notice the table setting, each detail proper and deliberate. I’ve never seen this china pattern, so I flip the bread plate over and check the seal. The plates are Umbrian, a bold design called Falco, which shows hand-painted white feathers on a vivid green field. The pattern provides a splash of color on the black lacquer tabletop.

Roman returns with a small tureen that he places on the table. He loosens the cork on a bottle of Tuscan Chianti and pours wine into my glass, then his own. He sits down at the table. He picks up his wineglass. “Good wine, good food, and a good woman…”

“Oh, yes. To Bruna!” I raise my glass.

As Roman ladles the risotto onto my plate, a buttery cloud floats up from the dish. Risotto is a tough dish to pull off. It’s labor intensive, you must stir the rice grains until they puff up or your arm falls off, whichever comes first. It’s all about timing, because if you stir too long, the rice will turn into a goop of wallpaper paste, and not long enough-you’ve got broth.

I take a taste. “You’re a genius,” I tell him. He almost blushes. “Where’d you learn how to cook?”

“My mother. We had a family restaurant in Chicago. Falconi’s, in Oak Lawn.”

“So why did you come to New York City?”

“I’m the youngest of six boys. We all worked in the family business, but my brothers never saw beyond the fact that I was the baby of the family. Even in my thirties, I couldn’t break that birth-order rap. You know what that’s like, don’t you?”

“Alfred is the boss, Tess is intelligent, Jaclyn is the beauty, and I’m the fu

“So you get it. I’d been working for the family since I was a teenager. My mother taught me how to cook, and then I went to school and learned some more. Eventually, I wanted to take what I’d learned and make some changes in the restaurant. It soon became apparent that they liked the restaurant just the way it was. After a lot of wrangling, and nearly drowning in my mother’s tears, I left. I needed to make it on my own. And where better to make your name as an Italian chef than here in Little Italy.”

Roman refills our glasses. There’s a lot of common ground between us. Our backgrounds are similar, not just the Italian part, but the way we are treated in our families. Even though we’ve both made some bold choices and gotten real-life experience, our families haven’t changed their perceptions of us.

“So how did you decide to join the family business?” he asks. “Not too many shoemakers out there these days.”

“Well, I was teaching school, ninth grade English, in Queens. But on weekends, I’d go into the city and help Gram in the shop. Eventually, she began to teach me things about making shoes that went beyond packing and shipping. After a while, I was hooked.”

“There’s nothing like working with your hands, is there?”

“It takes everything I’ve got-mentally, physically. Sometimes I’m so bone tired at the end of the day I can hardly make it up the stairs. But the work itself is just part of it. I love to draw, to sketch the shoes and come up with new ideas, and then figure out how to build them. Someday, I want to design shoes.” This wine has put me in a cozy place. I just confided my dreams to a man I hardly know in a way I rarely ever admit, even to myself.