It’s not what I’m used to.
As soon as we pushed through the glass door, we were immediately shown to a table and given menus describing the appetizers and entrees written in Italian, along with a separate wine list. Dr. Holloway glanced at the alcohol selection before ordering a bottle of something I’d never heard of and probably couldn’t pronounce if my life depended on it.
Instead of our original waiter returning to the table with the wine, an older gentleman with a bushy mustache and a shiny head stops by. His skin is deeply sun-kissed with a weathered quality as if he’s spent his entire life tromping around outdoors. When he smiles, wrinkles break out across his face, making it look more like a busy road map.
“Buona sera, Gabriel,” he says with a small bow.
My professor smiles, greeting him warmly in the same language, which I assume is Italian. My attention bounces back and forth between them as they speak for a few minutes.
It’s only when the older man’s gaze darts to me that he clears his throat. “Mi scusi, signorina. Sometimes I forget and lapse into Italian.”
I smile. There’s something both charming and endearing about him. “It’s not a problem.”
“Elle, I’d like to introduce you to Dante.” My professor waves to encompass the beautiful space. “And this is his restaurant. He and his wife have owned it for over thirty years.”
The man beams, standing a little bit straighter. “Yes, and Gabriel has been coming here for nearly as long.”
Interesting. That can only mean that Dr. Holloway grew up around here.
Instead of giving me more of their backstory, Dante opens the bottle and pours us each half a glass. “I promise you will love it,” he says, voice overflowing with enthusiasm.
Even though I don’t drink, I find myself unable to refuse. “Thank you.”
“Let me know if you need anything else.” He places the wine on the table before disappearing from sight.
With a nod, my instructor swirls the golden-colored liquid inside the delicate stemmed glass, making sure not to slosh it over the rim before raising it to his nose. My fascination grows as he closes his eyes and inhales deeply. There’s a sweep of dark lashes against the fragile skin before they flutter open again. His gaze locks on mine as he brings the glass to his lips and takes a drink.
“Exquisite.” He waves a hand toward my untouched beverage. “Take a sip and tell me what you think.”
When I hesitate, he cocks his head. “You don’t like white wine?”
For a few seconds, I contemplate whether or not to reveal the truth. If I do, it’ll lead to questions I don’t particularly want to answer. “I’m not sure, I’ve never had it before.”
His brows rise before a chuckle slips free. “I almost forgot you were still in college. Let me guess, your palette leans more toward beer and shots.”
I glance away before clearing my throat. “Actually, I don’t drink.”
Surprise laces his voice. “At all?”
“Nope.”
He sits back before lifting the glass to his lips as he silently contemplates me from across the table. “I would imagine there’s a reason for that?”
I nibble at my lower lip, trying to decide if I want to delve into something so personal. The extent of our previous conversations has mostly revolved around statistics. It’s strange to take our relationship beyond the realm of school.
“Elle?”
The sound of my name has me blinking back to the present. I hadn’t realized I’d become lost in the tangle of my own thoughts. Instead of responding, my fingers wrap around the fragile stem before lifting the glass until it’s eye level. Mimicking his movements, I cautiously swirl the liquor. The motion becomes almost mesmerizing as the liquid rises before washing down the side.
“What you’re doing aerates the wine, which helps release more aroma into the air. If you bring the glass to your nose, you should be able to notice the differing notes.”
I do as he instructs, burying my nose in the stemware and sniffing delicately.
He leans closer to the table as enthusiasm leaps into his eyes. “Now, tell me what you smell.”
Hmmm. Something...zesty yet fruity. It’s so different than the overpowering scent of hops and barley I’m used to catching a whiff of at the parties I normally attend.
“Definitely fruit. Pears?” I inhale a little more deeply. “Maybe lemons?” I don’t know. It’s just a guess.
A satisfied smile lifts the corners of his lips as he nods. “Very good. You’re absolutely right. This particular grape is grown in Sardinia. You can actually smell and taste the flavors of the earth where the grapes were raised.”
Curiosity gets the better of me and I find myself bringing the glass to my lips before taking a tiny sip.
“Allow it to sit on your tongue for a moment,” he directs. “Can you taste the rich tapestry of scents you were able to identify earlier?”