Behind the counter of a space entirely crafted from wood, dust settles on the wine bottles. The audacious fingers of some customers occasionally remove the matte sheen given to the glass by the opaque layer of settled dust. Behind the counter, I find the owner of an enoteca mentioned by Rick Steves.
He, the proprietor, is swamped, eyes darting to everything happening outside the establishment—onto the cobbled street adorned with makeshift tables and restless feet of the young crowd clustering on the sidewalk, this side painted in a lighter shade of grey. While he surveys the outdoor scene, his gaze initially meets mine askance, but after a persistent moment, he turns his attention back to me and inquires, ‘May I help you?’ Following Rick Steves’ recommendation, I order an ‘Aperol Spritz.
He combines three or four ingredients to concoct an orange-hued drink, the same color as those I’ve sipped across the rest of Italy. I must admit, despite my initial resentment for his delayed acknowledgment of my presence, I taste the craftsmanship in the seemingly carelessly prepared beverage. What appeared to be negligence revealed itself as true capability and efficiency in crafting a quick drink after more than 10,000 hours of honing this skill throughout his lifetime. That’s what experts do: they don’t let you believe that what they create comes easily, without countless hours of dedicated labor and fine-tuning their art.
So, there I am, sipping my Aperol Spritz and attempting to savor the ‘evening passeggiata.’ Young and even younger souls come and go, while my eyes drift over the wine labels. I saunter through the two rooms that make up the venue. He prepares another Aperol Spritz for me, and after that, I request a dry red wine, leaving the choice to him, though with a preference for a mineral undertone and a backdrop of fruit flavors. He serves up a fine red wine.
Well, I introduce myself and mention that I’m a reader of Rick Steves and that his enoteca is featured in the guide. I know he’s aware his name is there, but he feigns ignorance, and I, in turn, pretend not to know that he knows. Pride washes over his face, and a discreet smile cracks his otherwise stern and focused visage. To test the boundaries of his vanity, I now ask for an autograph. For a brief moment, he smiles contentedly but quickly regains his composure, reins in the smile, puffs out his chest, and asks with measured indifference: ‘Where would you like me to sign?’ I open the guide and say, ‘Right here’ ….