I nod.
“Get ready. I have a wine for each course.”
“Each course?”
“Uh-huh,” he laughs. “We’re having two.”
I pull out the stool under the counter and climb onto it. I watch him as he unpacks the tote, which is like one of those boxes in the circus where you think the last pup in a skirt has danced out, but another jumps out of the box and gets in line. There is box after box, tray after tray, container after container, until most of the counter is filled with unmarked delicacies.
Roman opens the cabinets, pulling out a large skillet, and a smaller one. He puts the flames on low underneath the empty pans. Quickly, he throws butter in one and drizzles olive oil in the other.
He reaches into the tote and hands me a small white box. “This is for you.”
I shake it. “Let me guess, a truffle?”
“I’m boring you with my truffle dishes. No, it’s not fungi.”
“Okay.” I open it. A branch of coral the color of a blood orange lies on a pad of white cotton. I pull it out of the box and place it in my hand. The solid fingers of the waxy jewel make a lovely shape that curls as it rests in my hand. “Coral.”
“From Capri.”
“Have you been there?”
“Many times,” he says. “Have you?”
“Never.”
“Well, I’m taking you for your birthday. I worked it out with Gram. When you fly to Italy next month, you’ll get your work done, and then we’re going to Capri for a week at the end of your stay. We’re going to stay at the Quisisana. An old friend is the chef of the restaurant there. We’ll eat and swim and relax. How about it?”
“You’re serious?”
“Very.” Roman leans across the counter and kisses me.
“I’d love to go to Capri with you.”
“I’m taking care of everything. Just the two of us, and that ocean and that sky and that place. This will be the first time I’m in love when I’ve gone there.”
“Are you in love?”
“Didn’t you know?”
“I was hoping.”
“I am.” Roman puts his arms around me. “Are you?”
“Definitely.”
“There’s an old trick that I learned from the locals on Capri when I was there. Everybody wants to go into the Blue Grotto, and it gets overrun with tourists. So they came up with a sign that says Non Entrata La Grotto. When the sign is out, the tour guide tells the people on the boat that the surf is too rough to enter, but in fact, the locals put the sign there to keep the tourists out while they’re inside swimming.”
“That’s a cheat. What if it’s the only time the poor tourists can visit Capri and they miss out on the Blue Grotto?”
“The tour guides circle past the grotto and return later, when the sign is gone, and they row inside.”
“What’s the grotto like?”
“I’ve tried in every place I’ve ever lived to paint a room that color blue. And I’ve never found it. And the water is warm. Some old king used it as a secret passageway through the island to the other side. A lot of decadent stuff went on in there.” Roman pulls me close. “And there will be more of that this spring.”
The kitchen fills with the scent of hot butter. Roman quickly turns and lifts the pan off the stove, throwing in garlic and herbs, swishing them around in the butter, creating a smooth mixture. “Okay, I’m gonna let this set. First up: caviar. From the Black Sea.”
He snaps open a container and places a wafer-thin pizzelle, which looks like a flat, circular waffle, on a plate. “You know the pizzelle cookies from when we were kids? This is my version. Instead of sugar, I make these with lemon zest and fresh pepper.” He opens the tin of caviar and scoops a spoonful onto the pizzelle. Roman adds a dab of crème fraîche on top of the Black Sea beads and gives it to me.
I take a bite. The combination of the tart lemon in the pizzelle, the rich caviar, and the rush of sweet cream melts in my mouth.
“Not bad, right?”
“It’s heavenly.”
I watch as Roman throws medallions of beef into the large skillet with the olive oil. He chops sweet onions and mushrooms onto the meat, dousing it in splashes of the red wine from the bottle we are drinking. Slowly, he adds cream to the pan, and the sauce turns from golden brown to a pale burgundy.
“I spent a few months on Capri in the kitchen of the Quisisana. Best thing I ever did. They have an open oven outside, behind the kitchen. In the morning, we’d build the fire with old driftwood from the beach and then we’d keep it going all day, slow-roasting tomatoes for sauce, root vegetables for side dishes, you name it. I learned the value of taking time when cooking. I roasted tomatoes down to their essence, the skins turning into silky ribbons, while the pulp turns rich and hearty in the heat. You don’t even have to make a sauce out of them, just throw them on pasta, they’re that sweet.”
In the small pan, where the herbs are glazed in butter, Roman empties a container of rice, loaded with olives, capers, tomatoes, and herbs. As steam rises off the rice, and the steak sizzles, he sets the counter for dinner.
Roman has the most beautiful hands (people who work with their hands usually do), long fingers that move with grace, artfully and deliberately. It’s mesmerizing to watch him slice and chop, the blade rhythmic as it glints against the wood.
“The nights on Capri were the best. After work, we’d go down to the beach and the ocean would be so calm and warm. I’d lie in that saltwater and look up at the moon, and just let the surf wash over me. I felt healed. Then we’d build a big fire and roast langoustines, and have some homemade wine with it. That’s my idea of bliss.” He looks up at me. “I can’t wait to take you there.”
Roman is very neat when he works, straightening the kitchen as he goes, maybe his tidiness coming from the necessity of working in small spaces. Nothing is wasted in Roman’s cooking, he respects every stalk, leaf, and bud of an herb that he uses, examining it before mincing it or rubbing it into a recipe. In his hands, common foods become elements of delight, crackling softly in butter, steaming in cream, and drizzled with olive oil.
Roman opens a container filled with finely chopped vegetables-bright green cucumbers, red tomatoes, yellow peppers-and broken bits of fresh parmesan cheese. He sprinkles the vegetables with balsamic vinegar from a tiny bottle with a gold stopper. “This is very special. It’s twenty-two years old. Last bottle! It’s from a farm outside Genoa. My cousin makes it himself.”
Roman fills two bowls with the chopped salad. I remember telling him how much I love raw vegetables finely chopped; he remembers and he delivers. He opens a second bottle of wine, this one earthy and hearty, a Dixon burgundy 2006. He turns to the stove and flips the steaks, which make a cloud of steam. A misty cloud rises from the pan of rice. He lifts it off the burner and spoons the hot rice mixture onto the dishes. He throws the moppeen over his shoulder and lifts the other pan. He places the lean steak artfully on top, my dish of rice first and then his. Then he drizzles the sauce from the pan on top of the steak and rice.
“Should we sit at the table?” I ask him.
“No, this is better.” He pulls out a stool and sits down across from me. “I feel like I’m at a board of directors meeting when I sit over there.”
I pick up the knife to cut the steak, but I don’t need it. I break off a piece with the fork. The savory sauce has cooked through the meat in an explosion of flavors that are magnified by the sweet grapes that turn hearty and earthy to taste. I chew the delectable bite. “Marry me,” I say to him.
“And here I thought you were breaking up with me.”
I put my fork down and look at him. “Why would you think such a thing?”