A meet cute that happens at the beach…enjoy!
Francesca breathed in the sea air as she opened the patio doors to her restaurant with a view of the Pacific Ocean. The marine layer was just beginning to break while some of the later surfers traipsed down to the beach for their morning appointment with wave riding.
The restaurant space was hers. Finally. Francesca had walked by that “For Lease” sign over the years remarking on its reappearance as one restaurant after another failed in the space. After six months, maybe a year, the renovation process would begin again and the next establishment destined for failure would open.
A full-on mystery. Or something else. The contemporary box building two-storied space was close to the beach on a major street, a few blocks away from the main business thoroughfare. The foot traffic was busy enough. Then again, Francesca had to admit she had never eaten a meal in any of the restaurants that had been in there over the years.
“I missed my chance again,” Francesca said each time the “For Lease” sign disappeared and another restaurant opened at the location.
“You’ll have another opportunity in six months,” her brother’s girlfriend said.
The joke was no longer a joke. Today was the opening day of “Piece of Italy”. All she needed was a pasta machine and a gelato machine to recreate some of her favorite dining experiences in Italy – simple pasta shops offering fresh made noodles with parmigiano and olive oil, or Bolognese sauce to eat in or take away.
The cherry on the Hawaiian toast would be a different gelato flavor each month. There were already two ice cream shops and a gelateria in town, but she would offer gelato made from fresh ingredients in season with her own recipe.
The kind of restaurant Americans loved to go to in Italy.
9 am. Francesca, in her rhinestone studded cat eye sunglasses and her large brimmed hat, greeted the passersby good morning while standing beside the chalkboard displaying the menu for the day. “Bacio”, an Italian word meaning kiss, was written in bold white chalk letters as the gelato flavor of the month.
The surfers passing by with their wet suits at half-mast on the way to the beach were her target market. One man, his surfboard hooked under his arm, his hair bleached white, looked directly into her eyes at her position on the patio raised at least a chair’s height above the sidewalk.
“Good morning,” she said when he walked by, his face reminding her of movie star on the Game of Thrones.
“Morgen, I mean morning,” she heard back.
“Where are you from?” Francesca yelled out to the surfer a few steps beyond the restaurant.
“Norway,” he said.
“Please come back to try my pasta. I speak Norwegian!”
He saluted her.
Around noon, the Norwegian surfer returned and propped his surfboard up against the wall outside the restaurant, a towel wrapped around his neck and the pirate pants popular among European men covered his legs. No shirt.
“Jeg er sulten. I’m hungry,” he said, looking down into her eyes.
“I can help you with that,” Francesca said, feeling his gaze warm her to her toes.
“I didn’t expect to be speaking Norwegian in an Italian restaurant in the USA.”
“I didn’t expect to be speaking Norwegian in my Italian restaurant. Certainly not on opening day.”
“Not that many Norwegians wandering around the beach, ja?”
“No, but I definitely dial in when I hear Scandinavian languages along the Strand.”
“So how does it work here?”
“We make fresh pasta in four different shapes and top it with Bolognese sauce – it’s my family’s recipe – or we have parmigiano and olive oil. Or today’s special, sauteed Treviso with a dollop of ricotta.”
“So no pineapple on pizza?”
“Oh, and the conversation was going so well.”
“No, I’m teasing. Give me your recommendation.”
“Well, if I’m honest, I’m partial to my Bolognese sauce. If I had to choose one meal for the rest of my life, it would be my pasta with my Bolognese sauce. OK, not my Bolognese, my mother’s. I’ve copied her recipe.”
“Mom’s recipe? The Bolognese must be great then.”
“If you want something different though, you could try the Treviso with ricotta. I’ve turned many people onto this dish. The dish kind of evolved in my family. A new family recipe, but it’s easy to make. Er, maybe I shouldn’t broadcast how easy my dishes are to make.”
“Hmmm, difficult decision. OK, I’m going to go with the special. My guess is it might not be here tomorrow. Bolognese sauce will be here every day. Is that correct?”
“You’ve got it. I like the way you think. You won’t be disappointed. And the pasta?
“I’m going to defer to you again.”
“My favorite pasta is the tonnarelli. I, I mean we cut them fresh for you on the chitarra.”
“OK, jeg skal ta dem.”
“Selvfølgelig.”
Francesca disappeared in the back while the surfer sat down at a table in the outside space. In less than 10 minutes, she was back with a large aqua colored hand-built ceramic bowl containing enough pasta to feed him for a couple of days.
“That was fast!”
“The noodles only take two minutes to cook. The longest part is boiling the water, and we have special equipment to do that. I just drop them in and then fish them out.”
“OK, well here goes.”
“Maybe you would like a pinch of sea salt. It’s delightful with a little bit of a crunch in each bite. And some parmigiano?”
Francesca dipped the spoon into the freshly grated cheese and sprinkled some over the dish until he put his hand up signaling enough. The Norwegian twirled some noodles around his fork with the kind of skill acquired eating spaghetti over the lifetime of an Italian centenarian. Her eyes followed his motions and waited for his response after the forkful of homemade delight entered his mouth.
“Ja, ja, this is good! Så fint!”
“You really like it? It’s different. Treviso is a vegetable on the bitter side, but I love it on pasta.”
“Deilig.”
“So where are you from in Norway?”
“A small town on the east side of the country. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. Vinstra.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard of it. I’ve even been there.”
“How?”
“I had a friend from there who invited me to his family’s home for Christmas the first few months I was in Norway. Memorable because I couldn’t believe I was there. Pretty much just snow and cold. It looked like steam was coming off the river there because the water was at least a few degrees above zero while the air was many more degrees below zero.”
“Yes, the wonders of nature.”
“Sea smoke…I discovered later. An illusion of warmth.”
“You survived it. That’s something.”
“Yes, yes I did. I had a blast.”
“Why were you in Norway?”
“I went to Norway to work at a university. I’m a scientist. A molecular biologist.”
“And now?”
“Reentry is more difficult than leaving your homeland. I didn’t realize how much I had changed until I returned home. And then I discovered I didn’t want to perform any more experiments, at least the kind involving test tubes.”
“So a restaurant?”
“Well, it’s been bugging me. I walk by this property at least once a week when I visit family. I have had a running joke with my brother about opening a restaurant here. After the last one closed, I decided it was my turn to try. Bought my machines and here I am. Probably more work than finding the cure for cancer. I have to be here every day except Monday when we’re not open.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
“I’ll let you go. I need to attend to the other customers, but nice to meet you, um, hva heter du?”
“Yes, Vidar.”
“Francesca. Hyggelig…” And she put her hand out to shake his.
“Your Norwegian is good.”
“You’ll have to come back to refresh my memory. I spent so much time trying to learn Norwegian and now I remember next to nothing.”
“I’ll trade you for a pasta lesson,” Vidar said. “And I’ll take a Bacio before I go.”
A furrow formed between her brows and then she relaxed.
“Oh, right, a gelato.”
THE END
Books…
Norwegian Lessons in Indonesia (2023)
An Accidental Artist: Discovering Creativity through Scuba Diving (2018)
Art for sale at AnemoneWatch on Square
Janice Nigro 
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