Rossi, Rossi, oh wherefore art thou . . . Angie

AGAINST THE ODDS:On the fourth anniversary of their first date Vinny is determined to give Angie a Valentine's night out she'll never forget

THE changing facilities were more spartan than swish in the men’s washroom at Clontarf bus garage but the cracked mirror, the empty soap dispenser, and the sluggish speed of the hand dryer had never bothered Vinny Fitzpatrick.

After stripping off his standard issue bus driver’s uniform, he glanced at his reflection, conscious his upper body was all folds of flesh while his legs, once oak-like, were becoming increasingly spindly. “Not a pretty sight,” he thought to himself.

On this night there was no time for recrimination as Vinny had a pressing engagement with Angie, his better half. It had been ages since the two of them had canoodled up for a romantic dinner and Valentine’s night gave them the excuse to rekindle the flame.

It was the fourth anniversary of their first date in the Grand Hotel, Malahide, where Vinny had fallen head over heels in love with the vivacious, recently-divorced, manager of Boru Betting.

A lot of betting slips had passed between them since that fateful night but Vinny adored his wife more than ever, even if he didn’t get around to saying it, or showing it, as much as he should.

Tonight he would. Tonight he would remind Angie of how much she meant to him.

Quickly, he ran a wet towel under his hairy armpits – it could get quite warm in the cabin of the 130 when the heaters were on full blast – before applying a liberal dose of deodorant, aware he over-clubbed slightly.

After scouring his flabby neck and behind his ears, he shaved, taking care not to nick himself. He then scrubbed his teeth, or what was left of them.

Wearing a clean shirt, jeans that flattered him and his only blazer, Vinny closed his locker and headed out on to the seafront with a hint of a swagger.

The trio of Italian restaurants dotted along the Clontarf Road between Fairview and Dollymount were known as “The Three Tenners”, not that €30 would get you very far in any of them as they knew how to charge.

They were called after Italian composers, Rossini, Puccini and Verdi, names which meant nothing to Vinny. Unlike the names of Rossi, Scirea and Tardelli, which all did.

Paolo Rossi had been his hero of the 1982 World Cup finals in Spain, exploding out of nowhere in the second round with a hat-trick against favourites Brazil. He scored again in the final, breaking the deadlock against West Germany as Italy went on to win 3-1.

Rossi’s exploits against Brazil were the defining moments of that World Cup for Vinny, even eclipsing Gerry Armstrong’s goal for “Norn Iron” against Spain.

Vinny racked his brain to recall where that Italy versus Brazil game had been played. He thought it was Barcelona but the Nou Camp didn’t ring a bell. Was it Espanyol’s ground? he wondered.

“Rossi, Rossi, Rossi. Wherefore art thou, Rossi?” he thought to himself as he entered Puccini’s restaurant, which was tucked away off Vernon Avenue, a stone’s throw from Foley’s. It was just after half past eight and the table was booked for nine.

Angie hadn’t arrived for pre-dinner drinks, which was no surprise as she was often late. Vinny sidled up to the wine bar – he could do a mean sidle – and looked about him.

Inside the body of the restaurant he heard the clink of glasses and the tinkle of laughter. From the kitchen he could smell the aroma of fresh breads and the home-made tomato sauce for which Puccini’s was renowned.

Vinny already knew what he was having: bruschetta for starters followed by penne arrabiata for mains. He’d have a green salad, to keep up his five-a-day, and a few garlicky olives on the side. He wouldn’t overdo it as he knew the value of ensuring a little port-hole was left open for some porter afterwards.

Patting his breast pocket, he checked he had Angie’s Valentine’s card. He had bought one of those ones that burst into song when you opened it.

It was cheesy, he knew, and Angie would be embarrassed but Vinny was one of those folk who loved to give people what he liked, not necessarily what they wanted to receive.

Soon, the maitre d’ appeared. He was an unctuous sort with a false smile. “Your table is ready, sir. Would you like to go inside?”

It was just after nine bells. Vinny was slightly concerned but suspected Angie was making a special effort to look the part on the night – when she let her dark hair tumble down to her shoulders, and wore one of her low-cut dresses, it was enough to turn any head, even a potato-shaped one like Vinny’s.

By now, Vinny was feeling peckish. He asked for a refill and discreetly opened the packet of breadsticks in front of him. He then opened Angie’s.

A couple of bread rolls smothered in butter followed, after which he requested replacements, so that Angie wouldn’t notice. He also swept away the crumbs to remove the evidence.

Where was Angie? He reached for his mobile, only to realise he’d left it behind in his locker at the garage. It was half nine and he was getting worried.

Suddenly, he heard a husky voice he recognized. “Well, Vincenzo, are you sole mio this evening?”

It was Jackie, tall, tanned and teasing as always.

Jackie was a 40-something friend of Angie’s, who regularly crossed Vinny’s path, often with suggestive advances.

“Hi, Jackie,” he said, trying not to blush. “I’m waiting for Angie.”

“Oh, I know,” said Jackie, head tilted to one side, eyebrow raised. “She told me she was going to make it a special night for her Italian stallion,” she added in a tone which caused heads to turn. “Only here you are playing Cupid on your own, tut, tut.”

With that, Jackie linked arms with her husband, Jeff, a muscular type with gleaming teeth, and headed towards the exit.

“By the way,” shouted Jackie from the door. “I asked Angie earlier was she sure you’d know which restaurant to go to. She said of course you would as Rossini’s sounded like Rossi, your favourite Italian footballer.

“Catch you again, Vincenzo. By the way, tell Angie I said hello, whenever you see her, that is.”

At that, Vinny held his huge head in his hands and let out an audible moan.

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Vinny's Bismarck

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