When Umberto greets us at del Trivio,
he always pretends the house is full
unless we have secured a reservation.

Tonight, Rebecca has her comeback ready.
In her best Italian, so carefully practiced,
She returns: “No, but I know the cook.”

Umberto is delighted with the boldness
(and the precise Italian) of her quip.
“Bravo,” he applauds an unexpected aria:

the same word he uses to approve
the Italian way I now relish il ragù
by sopping up the last drop with bread.