Personal Yummy #108
We met one perfect almost-spring evening at Rosebud, a dance hall in the Strip District. He asked me to salsa. “You must have been Latin in a previous life!” he said after about two minutes, his genuine face beaming. “Why haven’t I seen you here before?” And he led me into an underarm turn.
“Believe me,” I replied, as I spun around twice, “I would’ve been here if I could’ve, but I just turned twenty-one a few days ago!”
Ah, that evening of fate. It was such an effortless beginning, and it’s been so effortless ever since.
We relax on his porch in the cool summer evenings, savoring extra-strong coffee; sip fiery Pisco as we lounge on his enveloping couch and watch tapes of Riverdance, The King and I, and topless African samba dancers; sit around his table eating just-grilled steaks and baked potatoes, with a side of shockingly hot jalapeños, while we sip merlot, chat about books and movies, and listen to the romantic Plácido Domingo.
He comes into The Grill at least once a week to eat—sometimes two or three times—and he always sits in my section. He loves dark beer and eats his hot wings and celery with a fork and a knife (although I’ve told him various times that it’s not necessary), and he always requests an extra scallion jutting out of the side of his Cajun chicken salad, even though he can never remember what it’s called. There’s no need to, anyway, because I always know what he wants.
Some nights he waits for me until my shift is over, and we sit at a tiny two-seater under the dimmed lights, with two fancy glasses of thick, glistening, sweet, amber-colored Disaronno Amaretto, looking at each other and talking intently. It’s always so intimate, no matter how many people are around.
He recommends countless books to me, including The Lover by Marguerite Duras, Paula by Isabel Allende, and The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. The first book is sensuous, about the love affair between a 27-year-old Chinese man and a young French girl; the second book I have yet to read (I’m having trouble finding an English translation); and the last book—well, I’m not quite sure how I feel about that one. Mariano tells me it’s one of his favorites. He’s read it again and says that it brings home to him what he’s been feeling lately: that if only he were chronologically twenty years younger…
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The above narrative is excerpted from my coming-of-age novel set in Pittsburgh. Enjoy the entire story about Mariano, as well as more stories about the waitress-cum-dancer Jenna and her friends, via The Grill on Murray Avenue: A Story of Innocence.
Thank you for your interest!
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