He was Sicilian, twenty five
with a boyish smile. Pumped
up slicked back and ready for
service - our youngest Maitre 'De.

In passing, he would call me
'baby'; a wink and a pout as
he sent me out with yet another
stack of napkins. But he didn't

quite get it. Couldn't fathom why
I joked with Chef, left kisses in the air
for anybody - I had them round my
little fingers. So when he left, back

to his family at the Big Hotel, and
he asked 'Do you love me?' in a quiet
moment, I couldn't help but smile to the
sound of Spanish love-songs

and toss another wink at Chef,
watching in the doorway.