He pestered about who Enrico was and forgot about the confessed 2 words I regretted revealing about Edward.
I told him he was Italian, true, his name was, Enrico Supini, true in a way and he lacked polish, also true. He checked every phone book in Silicon Valley looking for a "Mr. Supini", even pestering me about its spelling. I told him he was married with kids which eased his suspicions.
Enrico was smug with wife and 3 kids safely tucked away on his home turf. He enjoyed turf raiding me. While he took his wife for granted he was the type who would fall apart if a male invaded his turf.
I never talked about family with him. He, in contrast bragged about his, especially the kids. From what he said his wife was a good mother but a messy housekeeper and lousy cook who thought the grocery food sections were frozen, canned, dairy and cereal. She never cooked from scratch and his request for Italian food was met with micro waved frozen ravioli and boiled spaghetti with canned sauce.
His clothes weren’t poorly ironed, they weren’t ironed. She was, however, blond, attractive and thin from the picture in his wallet I stole a glance at while he showered. What was most important, she worshiped him.
The banter on which our affair began eventually turned into tiffs and spats. Enrico was a cheapskate, never left a tip for the hotel maid, bought his wife nothing, tipped the minimum at restaurants and grumbled about how much our affair cost.
After our third hotel encounter I upped the maid tip to two dollars. He thought leaving a tip for the maid crazy. I never told him about my mother. He, of course, could not bring home the left over soap or shampoo and snickered about a maid's fate when I opened the unused ones for the maid to take home.
While loving food I prepared and complaining about his wife's lack of cooking, food was a source of conflict between us. I love cooking, an important part of life. It was the strongest bond with my father. I make an Asian dish others would marvel at in 30 minutes. In Mountain View a childless elderly Italian woman across the street adopted me when I was an 18 year old pregnant bride and taught me Italian cooking. The Mexican women next door grew corn, ground it and made tortillas and I learned to cook the "real enchilada" from her. I befriended older women and learned their recipes, and got good advice about men.
Food and drink influence happiness, health and appearance.
Unfortunately, many in America have surrendered to "heat and serve", "shake and bake" or microwave. "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach," trite but true. A rendezvous while centered on sex preferably includes food either at a special restaurant with wine or a meal I prepare. With food, sex is the appetizer, desert or best both.
Enrico never took me to an upscale restaurant, gulped down food I prepared and failed to see food as art in life. While educated with a degree in engineering his deportment suggested a lack of a “proper” education. Once I brought lasagna to room 314 with a small bottle of ice wine and a bottle of his favorite cheap beer. Deflated after our quickie, he got up naked, piled the lasagna, still warm from my oven on a plate and was back in bed gobbling it down with his beer chaser instead of waiting for me while I got dressed.