Camargo

“Hey, hey, if it isn’t Bunny Bunzenburner, venture capitalist extraordinaire slash celebrity music producer. Care for a carrot?” No, this isn’t a rendering of some nightmare, although my restless dream that night had an eerie resemblance to what happened that day. This was a waiter in some obscure restaurant in the village of Carloforte, we’re talking far-flung, Timbuktu-, ignored-by-most-migratory-birds Sardinia. Waiters are not supposed to say “Hey, hey, if it isn’t Bunny Bunzenburner, venture capitalist extraordinaire slash celebrity music producer. Care for a carrot?” They are supposed to say, “Care for a carrot?” full stop. And perhaps, “Would you like some random other nibblings to go with that? We have slippers, leather couch, and the chef’s specialty for this week, speaker-wiring.” Especially if they are addressing a rabbit, which was clearly the case here. So I ask, “what kind of restaurant is this, and what kind of waiter are you to address me in this manner going ‘Hey, hey, if it isn’t Bunny Bunzenburner, venture capitalist extraordinaire slash celebrity music producer. Care for a carrot?’?” He said, “Well, you are Bunny Bunzenburner, right?” “Yes. That’s right.” “Venture capitalist extraordinaire slash celebrity music producer?” “Indeed, it is so. But what’s that got to do with anything? Oh, I’ll have some carrots by the way. Do you have speaker wiring?” “Some, but it’s mostly attached to the restaurant’s speakers though, I’m not sure if the manager…” I derailed that particular train of thought by sliding a fifty-Euro note his way. “I’ll see what I can do,” he muttered under his breath, looking circumspectly at the other customers. “When you are finished eating, you and I need to have a word,” he added, even more nervously. “Excellent, good man. Now chop chop, more fetchy, less talkie. I want steamed carrots served on a bed of speaker wire, medium-rare, in garlic.” “Coming right up, sir.” Anyway, to make a long story short, I enjoyed my dinner –the carrots were of a local variety, unbeknownst and slightly less than appreciated by my digestive system- and was later joined at my table by Camargo, for that was the name of the mysterious waiter. All of the other customers had left when at some point the slight whiff of Vivaldi disappeared from the air. “Are you ready for this?” he asked in impeccable English. “Ready for what?” “For what I am about to tell you.”