We met Eduardo on Samantha's last night in Europe. We had been in four places in one week, and honestly, this left us weathered and with a few battle wounds. We said we'd inhale whatever little bit of Vienna we could in her last 24 hours--window shopping, people-watching, and of course--eating. Sam planned dinner. She read me some description that described Restaurant Bauer, where we'd have dinner, as "dimly lit" and "romantic" and "hidden treasure." I was sold.
Just as we're getting ready for our pre-dinner cocktails, Eduardo asked me, "Where are you from?" I responded with, "New York," which doesn't yield a reaction. "Where are you from?" I asked back.
"Eet-alee," Once I decipher his over-enunciated word, I squeal. Italy!
Eduardo is a hyper-exaggerated version of myself on about three months worth of steroids in the middle of some wonderful party. He is exhausting and opinionated and will interrupt his own sentences to tell you about the best thing he ever ate in some fantastically far country while he was washing dishes in order to afford all his traveling. Not only that, he has this theory. It's about italian food. He says, "if you hold the fat from the pig between your fingers, it melts. If you hold the fat from a cow, it doesn't melt. This is why you only see skinny people when you walk around Italy. It's just my theory, don't know if it's true."
He tells me he's from Bologna, which makes my eyes grow wide. I tell him I'm going to eat my way through Italy, which makes him confused. Although, he somewhat understands because he claims all the food in the United States is shit. "In America, I suffer. The food makes me suffer. There is absolutely no good food in America," he finishes this sentence, like the one before it and the one before that, with, "Bastardo!" He warns me about gaining 3kg (or about 10 pounds). But then, immediately, he insists I stop in Bologna, and continues to draw out this elaborate meal at his favorite restaurant.
I haven't even agreed to stopping in Bologna, but he's already saying, "You go and get the house antipasti for one. Usually it's for two people, but they will make it for one. Then you must order the tortellini with the prosciutto. This tortellini, it's the best in the world. They stuff the tortellini with prosciutto and roll it around their fingers to give it the tortellini shape. Then the put it in the brotto. Oh, this brotto. They take the chickens with the vegetables and cook it forever with zee spiciness to make the brotto," He actually makes kissing sounds with his hands. "After this, I will tell you where to eat the gelato," I'm dodging his hand gestures, which look like he's opening and closing invisible drawers or whisking eggs or simply being very stereotypical Italian. "You must try three different flavors, but not this pistachio or this chocolate. That's boring. You try the due torri, bologna ride, and the lord of the rings." This future meal is supposed to end with ambascciatore and espresso. He hesitates, "It's just regular but you will think it's amazing because you are suffering from the American food."
I wrote all his suggestions down, frantic. Of course I'm going. I was always going.
Eduardo came to dinner with us, and the entire time, I couldn't help but feel like this is an appropriate preview for the time I will spend in Italy. "Zee problem is that we are food-focused. The main comment is about the food and the wine. We don't want to work. We want to eat the food and drink the wine. We are passionate and that is why Italy is in a crisis," He is so extravagant, so elaborate, so over-the-top. It's fun. He stops between bites to tell us, "We just love women in Italy. Everything we do is for women. We buy the house, because women want the house. It's too expensive to buy a house in Italy! And, after the house, comes the babies. I can't afford a house and a baby. A Ferrari is cheaper than a house and a baby. So, we all drive Ferraris and we don't reproduce. Italy is in a crisis. Bastardo!"
The rest of the night continues like this. We cling our last glasses of wine, and Eduardo tells us, "you do this when you salute, so you can activate all the five senses while drinking wine." I don't want this commentary to end, because when it does, Samantha leaves me.
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