“Not far,” Tony said. He tapped his ear. “You have a fine ear, Señor.”
“It is something like a hobby for me,” the man said. “I am told that I am very good at it.”
“You’re amazing.”
“And how may I help you, Señor?”
“I would like something cold to drink, and then I would like to eat.”
“We have the Coca-Cola, and agua con gas.”
“Coca-Cola.”
“And have you considered what you would like to eat?”
Tony heard his father’s voice in his ear:
“This only works in a little restaurant,” he said. “But if the guy running it is pushing something, take it. It’s one of two things: He personally made it and he’s proud of it. Or they made it yesterday and he’s trying to get rid of it. You can always send it back.”
“You surprise me,” Tony said.
“I will try to please. And a wine.”
“You surprise me.”
The first thing that appeared was the Coke and the wine. The Coke was cold, and Tony drained it and burped.
“Excuse me.”
“It is nothing.”
There was a whole bottle of wine.
All I wanted was a glass, but what the hell.
The man went through the wine-tasting ritual.
In a joint like this? But what the hell, he’s trying.
“Very nice,” Tony said. The man beamed and filled Tony’s glass.
“What do you call it?”
“Vino tinto Rincón Famoso. It is Argentine. I would not want my mother to hear me say this, but I prefer it to the Italian.”
“Very nice,” Tony said, meaning it, even if it wasn’t the Chianti he had hoped for.
Next came prosciutto—damned good prosciutto—on a plate with french fries.
“What do you call this in Spanish?”
“Jamón cocido con papas fritas.”
“Jamón cocido con papas fritas,” Tony repeated. “Jamón cocido con papas fritas.”
“Fine,” the man said. “In no time you will learn Spanish. It is not that different from Italian.”
“I hope,” Tony said.