Word Ploy
Do a Google Image search for the word “Maialino.”
I’ll even do it for you.
For an entire country and speakers of its native language, that word means piglet.
For in-the-know New York foodies (that word still makes me cringe), it’s Danny Meyer’s Roman trattoria-inspired restaurant in Gramercy.
It’s the kind of place that serves a gussied-up if (reportedly) authentic version of rustic Italian cuisine.
It’s the kind of place I would never go, considering I lived in the real rustic Italy for eight years. Like so many raved-about spaces serving gourmet versions of cheap food, the whole concept feels like a well-executed scheme.
What if Jackson Pollack had admitted in an interview that one day he had simply dropped a can of paint by mistake, and the senseless splatter garnered him such attention he spent his last years laughing at the Art world and watching the money roll in.
That is how these restaurants make me feel. On top of that I know how much the wine actually costs. It’s maddening.
Yes, I’m fortunate to have traveled to and tasted the real Italy, France, and Spain, and few people share my experience.
But this is America, and that’s what we do here. We improve upon our collective cultural heritage through creative cuisine.
Perhaps I should open my mind to these fine Manhattan establishments and accept them for what they are: Culinary Artistry. Liking it or not is not the point. Simply appreciate the thought and creativity involved.
That is what I was prepared to do (for breakfast no less) on a first date with a journalist who had been pursuing me online for quite some time. Match.com had been pushing him on me for months, but to be blatantly superficial, I wouldn’t have given him a second glance on the street.
His dull eyes did nothing for me.
What did, was the email he wrote.
A skilled wordsmith on the worst of days, he managed to inspire intrigue, flattery and sex in a few sentences. As you can imagine, I’m susceptible to such things, and I told him so immediately.
When I mentioned the eyes in my note (yes, I did), explaining that yes, he seemed intriguing (he did, sincerely!), I needed someone whose eyes sparkle.
His response: “My eyes sparkle, but not for photographs, I like to write and I let my words shine for me.”
Followed by something about taking me in his arms….
Like any pure romantic, I am by nature un-cynical. Words thrill me, and in no time at all I’ll fill the space between your lines with every sweet imagined possibility.
I asked for a meeting, or at the very least a phone call. Better yet, a video call.
He kept putting it off with the usual excuses (So busy, so tired) plus some pizzazz about how he would rather be with me.
Maybe we was afraid to meet me in person, and hoped to seduce me first, so that his face or physique somehow wouldn’t matter - or buy himself (with words) some time to hit the gym.
He would drop a million hints (and a million names) about his fascinating career and life experiences. I could have written him-off as smug, egocentric, or pretentious.
I recognized his attempt to disguise contrivance (it takes one to know one). He reminded me of a quite self-possessed polyamorous composer I’d mistakenly (and briefly) fallen for last spring.
And yet.
Against my better judgment I wanted to believe him. I wanted to transcend appearances, open my heart and my eyes, and give us a chance.
When I gave him an ultimatum, he asked me out.
In a text message in the afternoon for a date that same night. I was already well into a boozy late lunch with best friends.
We negotiated via text and email. His following weekend was “all mine” but I was booked, so we agreed upon a breakfast date at the aforementioned Maialino.
In New York City, anything can happen. What sparkles one day, might just as soon lose its luster to something bigger, brighter or closer the next day.
As fate would have it, I met a charming Italian man that week whose affection spills out of him unapologetically, exactly the way I hope to inspire with these posts.
I was (and am still) exhilarated, relieved and terrified in that too-good-to-be-true kind of way.
It may be against my nature to love strategically, but in light of a recent mini-heartbreak, I am trying to take my time with this one.
And taking time requires distraction.
So while a part of me felt like canceling the breakfast date with the fascinating journalist, my curiosity, courtesy, and strategy kept me from doing so.
After all, he’d kept my attention long enough. I owed him and myself a chance.
As you can imagine, a breakfast date requires at least a 12-hour preparation.
The night before, I attended a show and a bar, where I declined a date (why throw another one in the mix?), a slice of pizza (saving my appetite for the culinary artistry), and a cigarette (first date = fresh start, and not everyone finds a woman with smoky hair charming in that Parisian kind of way).
Instead I cozied up at home (ravenous) and finally crawled into bed at 2:30am, having ripped myself from an old friend’s side on the couch. I was afraid to oversleep…
A few hours later I awoke, dressed and allotted 45 minutes to get there.
Being late is never fashionable on a first date.
AS I was locking my front door, the phone buzzed.
An email (email!) from the writer. 45 minutes before our date. Considering his behavior so far, I’d been expecting it.
What I wasn’t expecting, was this:
I just woke up and I’m in no condition to make it to breakfast, but it’s with good reason. I went out with someone on Wednesday and spent the past 36 hours with them, I am, and was literally at one point, head over heels for her. I wish you the same happiness.
“They” say the best reaction in these cases is to say nothing. Disappear and remain mysterious.
But that will never be me.
I called. He didn’t dare pick up.
When I get angry, I cry. It’s highly ineffective. I said, or tried to say:
I LET MY WORDS SHINE FOR ME.
Take action my little friends!
Speak your words. Call when you feel like calling!
Better yet, be together where you can share some air and let your eyes and everything else really sparkle…
