We were led to our table by the maître d’, a handsome older Italian gentleman. I wondered if the French term was appropriate in an Italian restaurant. Whatever his title, he pulled out Mary’s chair and waited for her to sit.
“Thank you,” Mary said, trying to stifle a giggle.
“Your waiter, Giuseppe, will be with you shortly.” He handed out menus. “Would you care for anything from the bar?”
After taking our drinks order, the man bowed and departed.
“He’s nice,” Mary whispered.
“And too old for you,” I observed, opening my menu.
“True.” Mary sighed and opened her menu.
“It’s all in Italian.” Mark whispered to me.
“What did you expect?” I said, smiling above my menu at Mark. “We’re in an Italian restaurant.” I took pity on him then. “The English translation is towards the back.”
Ma
