We'll Always Have Florence

124.

We have been dining with Salvatore, in his traditionally decorated Italian bistro, since we first took up semi-permanent residence in the greater DC area. That was twenty-five years ago. It is a small wood paneled single room establishment with undeniable charm. Tintype pictures of Holy Rosary, Union Station and Salvatore’s association with politicians, athletes, entertainers and artists line the walls as if a collection on loan from the Smithsonian. Waiters and waitresses scurry about in long creme colored aprons seemingly on the verge of belting out a Verde aria. It is a happy, warm and delightfully soulful ticket to another, more peaceful and respectful time. Sal is busy at the counter bidding a group of overly satisfied diners a good night, I can hear his sincerely grateful, buona notte amici as we queue up in the short line waiting for a table to open. Sal looks up to see us and rushes in our direction for a formal greeting, a pair of bear hugs and kisses to both cheeks. He looks at the filled to capacity dinning room, at the line of hungry diners ahead of us and whispers a ‘follow me’. He leads us into the busy kitchen where his personal table sits cheerfully in the far corner of the bustling, aromatic and operatic grand cooking area. He grabs a pair of goblets and pulls back two overstuffed chairs. From behind the delicious vapors escaping from the massive copper pots a waitress magically appears with a bottle of the house red, produced by Sal’s cousin Giuseppe in the Le Marche region of the Italian heartland. San Pellegrino and warm rustic bread are ceremoniously placed on the white linen tablecloths. Instantly I lose my fatigue, inspired by the theatrics and ambiance of the location, the personal attention and the hospitality that our host and his extended family have instantly created. Sal assists Julie to her chair and asks about us and if we would like the lasagna. He knows what we do and does his best to keep a professional superficiality when asking about ‘the latest.’ We all know that the former VP is also a big fan of Salvatore’s. We leave it at ‘motto bene senore.’ Salvatore knowingly nods approval and turns to orchestrate some pivotal kitchen activity before dancing back to his post in the front of the house.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Julie opens, widening her blue eyes like those of an expensive camera’s iris to aperture to exposure triad.

I cannot resist and ask exactly what ‘it’ it is that she is in reference to, because from my perspective there are several ‘its’ in play. In casual order they might be:

The connection between the Queen of Hearts and myself it.
The why I did what I did at the gig it.
The what is TOM thinking it.
The how did it go with your debrief it.
The what is the latest between Davis and you're fine self it.
Or the should we let it loose and celebrate with a night to remember it?

We touch crystal wine glasses over the antipasti of sautéed eggplant and shrimp, eager to savor life’s finer things after another frantic few weeks of total immersion into the dark underbelly of a society in paradoxical longing for simultaneous security and freedom.

I look across the table at the woman with whom I once envisioned to be my absolute soul mate. The mellowness of twenty-five years of gratitude and forgiveness is perfectly paired with our location, the primo piatti, one glass of wine and the memories of a thousand special slices of shared eternity. I feel human again, not a machine and not an animal. I am thinking, what could be better than this?

On the house system Louie Prima croons the opening lines of ‘Old Black Magic,’ our eternal version of ‘As Time Goes By,’ as she returns my gaze and with impeccable timing, takes a dramatic deep breath and offers:  “We’ll always have Florence.”