Discourse

So this really happened today.

I decided to make Fang a big Italian dinner tonight. His request was utterly nondescript, so I decided to make use of what proteins I already had at hand (that would be some dazzling sweet Italian basil sausage). I went to the Upper West Side, a recyclable Trader Joe's bag in hand, and stocked up on savoy cabbage, leeks, a very fresh Italian fontina cheese, a sturdy baguette, garlic and other sundry produce items. I bought some miniature pink lady apples, blueberries and a packet of filo to concoct a dessert. I even brought a festive container of crumpets for breakfast. I'm a four course girl.

My attempt would assume the following steps: brown the sausage, soft cook the leeks, cook down the cabbage with some chicken stock, salt, pepper and add in the penne. Add loads of fontina. Heat the bowls, dose up and serve with a powerful Cabernet.

It sounded good. Now I needed to find the right wine.

I toddled six blocks to the wine purveyor at 79th & Broadway. I walked in, loaded down with my groceries. I bade the vendor good day and asked that I might put down my bags and leave them whilst I shopped for my wine. He approved and here's where the notable conversation began.

There was a tall 30-something African American man paying for a bottle of wine at the counter. He caught sight of me parking my groceries and he yelled out to me.

Man: What you got going on there, mama? You doing some cooking?
Me: (a little startled) why, yes. Yes, I am.
Man: I see some french bread. You making garlic bread? What are you cooking?
He seemed almost intense. But he was also very cute.
Me: (approaching him) Do you really want to know?
Man: That's why I asked you. I really want to know.
I describe the meal I want to make. He smiles broadly.
Man: Did you just make that recipe up, baby? Are you Italian?
Me: No.
Man: Jewish?
Me: No.
Man: Spanish?
Me: Yeah...no.
Man: What are you?
Me: Well, I'm one of those big mixes of nationalities.
Man: Of that big mix, which one are you?
Me: Polish, I guess.
Man: Polish?! What does a Polish girl know about Italian food? Is that why you're using cabbage in Italian food?
Me: I guess. Everyone likes cabbage, no?
Man shrugs. Then he gives me a sweet smile.
Man: You look Swedish to me.
Me: Well, I am part Danish..
Man: You have a husband?
Me: Last time I checked.
Man: Because if the husband doesn't like cabbage, I do. And if he don't want the dinner you're fixing up, I do.

Man signs his receipt. He takes an additional piece of paper from the cashier and writes something down. He hands me his phone number. His name is Devon. He winks as he gives me the number. Lord have mercy.

The minute he left, I wrote this conversation down. Word for word. And yes, he did use "mama" in his opening line. So retro and so perfect and so appealing coming from such a cute man.

I select a Coppola reserve Cabernet and a Paso Creek Merlot. The cashier in the store is laughing about our exchange.

And well, dinner went over well, too.