“Buona sera,” he said amiably. Then he gestured for Carter to come inside, directed him to a little table in a corner, and left him with a menu. He returned in a few minutes with some bread and a carafe of water, which he placed in the center of the table. “So, my American friend,” he began in English, “what can I give you tonight?”

“How did you know I was American?” asked Carter with a smile.

The owner shrugged his shoulders practically to his ears and opened his palms wide. Then he made an amusing face and grunted, “Eh, how did I know? I just knew.”

It was then that Carter realized that he had barely spoken a word of Italian since he landed in the country. In truth he had felt a little intimidated. It was one thing to speak the language when he was in the controlled environment of his Italian lessons. It was quite another to speak it in real life, when it seemed as though everyone was talking a million miles an hour. And so it was that he had been relieved to find that he was able to get by on his English. Somehow, though, Carter had felt challenged, in a friendly way, by the trattoria owner’s immediate identification of him as an American. He decided, after a moment’s consideration, that the time had finally come to put all those hours of study to work. He knew next to nothing about Italian cuisine, so he chose at random from the menu and left the rest to fate.

“In tal caso, vorrei per il primo piatto gli spaghetti con aglio e oleo per piacere,” said Carter politely. “Poi il vitello milanese, se Lei lo racom-manda .”

“Ma lui parla bene l’Italiano!” the man had exclaimed, throwing his hands up in delight. “How do you speak so well?”

Carter smiled, and explained with perfect diction that he had taken private lessons from a native Italian before coming to Italy.

“Bravo,” said the owner with an approving nod. “In that case, from now on, you and I will speak only in Italian. D’accordo?”

“D’accordo, but slowly, please,” Carter had pleaded with him. “Everyone here seems to talk so fast.”

“Ayyy, don’t worry, amico mio,” the man had laughed. “After a few days in Rome, we’ll have you right up to speed.”

The spaghetti with garlic and olive oil he had ordered proved to be tastier than Carter had imagined, and the veal was out of this world. He had enjoyed both dishes immensely. Still, it had been a strange experience, for he was not accustomed to dining alone in a restaurant. It was a curious, lonely feeling. The owner had passed by once or twice to exchange a few words, but the place soon got busy, and he had to attend to the other patrons.