Hunting Truffles

Chapter 5 Il Bar Spiriti

Chapter 5

Il Bar SpiritiThe clink of glasses and conversation filled the air with sound at the wine bar at Il Bar Spiriti in the central piazza of Sinalunga. The smell of fresh flowers mingled with the aromas of juniper and lavender leaves that stood tall in vases around the room, entwined with the unmistakable aroma of wine in all its forms. Paolo came here often to visit his friend, Dante, who worked the counter at Il Bar and served wine and small snacks to a clientele that was mostly local, with only a few tourists discovering this neat little hideaway in the outskirts of the town.

Everything about the wine bar was different from Paolo's environment at home. Instead of the quiet sounds of a rural farmhouse, Paolo could enjoy the vibrant nightlife at this popular watering hole. And tonight, he had exciting news to give his friend.

“I'm leaving for Genoa next week,” he began, thinking that this was less than a trip to America, but still better than working in the dusty expanse of a vineyard. “My aunt, Zia Rita, owns Ristorante Girasole and I thought I'd spend some time there, working in the restaurant and maybe spending my days on the beach.”

“Sounds good,” Dante said while drying and polishing some wine glasses behind the bar. He was tall and handsome, with a full head of wavy black hair, an athletic build, blue eyes, and a sculpted chin – a ladies' man – and he did little to cover for his enjoyment of this fact. Where Paolo was sensible and straightforward, Dante was flamboyant and imaginative. He saw the world as an opportunity to meet girls and have fun; Paolo imagined such a life but his rural upbringing kept him more grounded than his flashy friend.

“Maybe you'll need some help on the beach,” said Dante, setting one glass down and raising another. “Maybe the girls there will be too much for you,” he smiled and arched his eyebrows in the imagined pleasure.

“No, I'll be alright,” Paolo said. He didn't want to let on that the trip was arranged by his mother and that it wasn't really a vacation.

“I'll be there a week or two, just now before the weather cools off. Should be a nice break from this place.”

“What, you don't like Bar Spiriti?”

“Yes, I definitely like it here, and I like Sinalunga,” Paolo said with a slight hint of regret. “I meant home.” Paolo referred to his home with a flick of his head in the general direction of the dell'Uco farm that his family owned. “Genoa will be just what I need,” he added, musing silently that a trip to Genoa was more important for his experiment in severing ties than it was for transient pleasure.

Paolo swirled the wine in his glass, took a thoughtful sip, then peered at the glass again.

“Si, it's Chianti,” nodded Dante. “But can you guess from what estate?”

Paolo didn't like it when Dante played this game. He couldn't guess the provenance of the wine, his tastes were too simple for that. And he was sure that his friend couldn't either, but he played along.

“No. Where's it from?”

“An old estate named Castello di Gabbiano. They make a simple Chianti, a Chianti Classico, and a Chianti Classico Riserva. You have the Classico in your glass. Really something, huh?”

Paolo looked at him and said, “Yeah, but you wouldn't have known that if you weren't the one to pour the wine, right?”

Dante gave a sideways glance. He always tried to play the wine expert for the girls and the tourists, but there was no reason to try to fool his friend. He ended his brief glance with a playful smile, but otherwise didn't answer Paolo's question.

Instead, Dante's attention was drawn to two young women seated at the table right in front of his bar. They were trading stories in sotto voce, a muted voice, and looking his way. Dante didn't miss a chance to use his role as wine server in this establishment, and plied it often as an excuse to approach a table. He grabbed an open bottle of the Prosecco the ladies were drinking and swung into action.

“Un po di piu?” he asked.

“No, grazie, this glass was enough” said the one with auburn hair and green eyes. “Do you own this place?”

“Well, of course,” Dante stalled, while he tried to come up with the best way to describe his role at the establishment. “I am responsible for everything that goes on here. I choose the wines and set the prices, and I've come to be a fixture in this beautiful tasting room. People come from…”

“…everywhere to see you, right Dante?” The voice was that of the owner, Alessandra, who walked up behind him and had long ago become familiar with Dante's boasts and his way of usurping her true ownership of Il Bar Spiriti.

“Si, signora, of course they do. But it is because you have made Bar Spiriti the best place in Sinalunga for a thirsty person to visit.”

Both owner and employee exchanged slight smiles and Dante returned to his station while Alessandra poured more Prosecco into the ladies' flutes.

“Nicely done, Romeo,” chuckled Paolo.

“Why didn't you warn me she was there,” said Dante, only a little hurt but more perturbed that his romantic efforts had been thwarted.

“How? By throwing a cork at you? Or maybe this bottle,” Paolo said, hefting the half-emptied bottle of Chianti. He used the gesture for his own benefit, tipping the bottle to the side and pouring a glass of the wine while Alessandra's attention was elsewhere.

Dante pouted and leaned on the bar to await another opportunity. He picked up the drying towel, spun it from hand to hand, and watched Alessandra tend to “his” customers. He liked his boss and got along well enough, and she let him have a bit of freedom in her dining room. But only a bit.

Alessandra left the table and wagged a finger at him, but her smile revealed that she expected this behavior from Dante, and with his good looks and charm she probably assumed he added something to the atmosphere of the room anyway.

“So,” Dante said to Paolo, “you're going to Genoa in two days?”

“Si, on Friday. Why?”

“You've never worked anywhere but in your father's vineyard. Surely, sitting here drinking our wine hasn't taught you anything about working in a restaurant, and you can't expect Zia Rita to waste time teaching you.”

“What do you have in mind,” Paolo asked.

Dante threw the towel in Paolo's face and grinned.

“I have in mind that you learn something about waiting tables and pouring wine, right here, before you leave. You can help me tonight and tomorrow, and 'learn the ropes,' as they say in America.”

The reference stung a bit, because Paolo knew that he had once before described his true travel wishes to Dante, but he shrugged it off, swung the towel over his shoulder, and stepped off the stool. He turned immediately in the direction of the table with the two young women, but Dante cut him off.

“Sorry, amico, they've already been served,” and pointed his friend in the direction of the table with middle-aged parents and three school-aged children.