“This is where the locals and tourists shake their culos.” He pointed to a never-ending stream of clubs down Washington Avenue. We then traversed our way down Collins Avenue where he pointed out the many restaurants and hotels.
Of course, we rode down Ocean drive. One side was all boxy art deco styled buildings that Heather had pointed out when I arrived almost two weeks ago. The other side was a vast span of grass dotted with palm trees all the way up until the grass met the sand and then nothing but ocean.
We stopped at a tourist and local haunt called Gelato-Go. I’d never had the stuff but Anton swore by it.
We entered the small café, looking a bit out of place. I think that worked best for Anton because he was usually so recognizable. He wore his sunglasses inside and didn’t take them off. I pushed mine on top of my head to survey the options.
“So, gelato is like ice-cream?”
He nodded. “It is. Italian-style ice cream, only it’s not made with traditional cream. It’s made with milk. It’s also churned far less leaving it with little air in it making it seem more dense. I prefer it because the flavors are more robust, and it’s healthier.”
I scanned each option. The chocolate seemed far too dark making me think it would end up tasting like the bitter ass cannoli’s you get in Italian joints. Blech. I hated cannoli’s.
A wiry, thin fella approached me. His hair was high and slicked back in a very stylish way. He wore a shirt that said, “Gelato-Go, Fresh every day, healthy, light, low-fat, delicious and creamy.” The name tag he wore boasted “Fresh Francesco”, and although he could very well be Italian, it was hard to tell one way or the other.
“Bella signora, how may Francesco help you today?” His accent was definitely Italian. That solved that mystery.
“I don’t know. My friend here”—I pointed to Anton who looked more like the terminator than his alter ego Latin Lov-ah—“said your gelato was to die for. Since I’ve never had gelato before, what do you recommend?”
Fresh Franny grinned manically. “Oh, signora, you are going to love everything. We make fresh every day, homemade, and with less sugar and no fattening cream. You be keeping that body for years to come eating our treat!” he promised and I laughed.
I pointed down to the green one that had flecks of things in it. “What’s that?”
“Oh, good choice. Our very famous pistachio. We ship the nuts in from Sicily to make ours extra special.”
Anton leaned over my shoulder and whispered in my ear. “It’s pretty amazing and very flavorful. I’d probably recommend something a bit more simple. Do you like caramel?”
“Does a gambler love money?” I gave him my patented, are-you-shitting-me look. He chuckled. Oh, how I loved that chuckle. It reminded me of good times and another smokin’ hot dude who would be here tomorrow. “I’m pretty sure that ninety-nine percent of the population loves caramel. If they say they don’t, they are lying. Usually driven by their need to avoid something that often makes them gain weight by just glancing at it.”
Francesco watched patiently as we discussed the merits of every flavor. How strawberry was a far too boring flavor to get if I was going to try something I considered new and unusual. I wanted to go all out. Go big or go home, as they say. “Fresh Franny, I’m going to go with the caramel dulce de leche, please.”
“Excellent choice!” He filled the biggest serving bowl full of the creamy dessert.
I was pretty sure my eyes were the size of pizzas when he handed it to me. “I should have told you the little one.” I declared sizing up the giant dessert.
He shook his head, his hair jiggled with the effort but stayed perfect. “Everyone comes back for more. You go big.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
Anton, of course, ordered the pistachio, which pissed me off. He warned me off it, and then he ordered it! “Punk!” I swore at him.
“What?” He pushed his shades up into his hair and took a giant spoonful between his lips. Mmm, I could watch him eat ice cream all damned day. He looked that flippin’ good. Suddenly, I was too warm. I took off my jacket and placed it over the back of the chair. He did the same.
For a while, we sat in silence and enjoyed the best freaking gelato ever. Of course it was my first, but I couldn’t imagine anything better right then. The texture and silkiness was a cross between ice cream and frozen yogurt. Either way, I was a big fan.
“What are you going to do about Heather? She still mad?”
“Furious, and she’s barely talking to me.” He frowned and then took another bite. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t let her go.”
“What if she needs to go?”
He narrowed his brows and cringed. “I’m already famous. Working with me gives her more of a name than a new wannabe star.”
“And are you prepared to give her the clout she needs?”
“Clout?”
“You know, the respect. The role.”