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Chapter 38: Italian Lunch
🕑 Added 2025-06-08 09:55:21 +0000 UTC
America prided itself on being a melting pot, but let’s not kid ourselves—people here still sorted themselves into hierarchies, even among the so-called "white" crowd. Just being white didn’t mean much when the descendants of the Mayflower looked down on anyone who didn’t have tea with the Queen.
And so, people banded together. Ethnic groups formed tight-knit communities, complete with their own languages, rules, and invisible walls that kept outsiders out. You couldn’t break into a conversation held entirely in rapid-fire Italian, for example. That alone told you how thick the bonds ran.
After the photoshoot—more of a “quick mugshot with lighting” than anything artistic—the greasy old white guy at the photo studio pulled some strings. Next thing Henry knew, he was being introduced to a warm, mustached Italian man with a booming voice and a personality big enough to fill a stadium.
Key detail: not Sicilian. That calmed Henry’s nerves a bit. The last thing he needed was to end up face-down in an alley with one less kidney. Though, to be fair—he was Kryptonian. Let ’em try.
Still, it was better to have someone show him around than keep wandering L.A. like a clueless tourist.
And thanks to Tom’s paranoia rubbing off on him, Henry had picked up some useful tricks—like reading micro-expressions and micro-sweats, tracking pulse rate, breathing changes, and eye movements. The usual “is this guy lying to me?” toolkit. For now, though, the Italian guy just wanted to squeeze a few extra bucks out of him. Nothing sinister.
Henry even caught the photo guy whispering to his friend about making back the cash he “lost” earlier. Which—thanks to Henry’s Kryptonian hearing—was basically the same as saying it directly to his face. Nice try, amateur.
If these guys were trying to play him, they weren’t doing it very well.
It was nearing noon, and Henry’s stomach reminded him it had a say in things too. In his world, skipping meals was never part of the plan.
“Know any good places around here where we can talk and eat?” he asked.
The Italian smiled knowingly. “You got any dietary restrictions? Any special habits?”
Smart question. Ever since the hippie era, the U.S. had been flooded with all kinds of weird dietary philosophies. Veganism was the least complicated of the bunch. Religions, cults, and pseudo-health trends had made ordering lunch into a minefield.
“No restrictions,” Henry said. “As long as it’s not people or poop, I’ll eat it. But if the food sucks so bad it ruins my mood, that might affect our negotiations.”
The guy laughed, slapped Henry’s shoulder, and twirled his impressive mustache. “We’re not British, kid. You know what their best local dish is? French cuisine. Can you believe it? The bloody English got conquered in the kitchen!
“Us Italians? Our culinary history goes back to Caesar. The man conquered east to west for the sake of good food. Then came the Papal States, the Renaissance—Italian cuisine is the best in the world, hands down. No contest.”
Caesar conquered half the world just to get better food? Henry raised a brow. I feel like that’s not what my history teacher said…
Still, the guy was charismatic as hell. Like a one-man Broadway show. Every sentence came with hand gestures, body language, passion. By the end of the spiel, Henry found himself nodding along, stomach growling louder.
The restaurant was just two blocks away—no car needed. A small, family-owned Italian joint. Cozy, modest, and filled with the kind of mouthwatering aroma that could knock a man out cold. Inside, a husband-and-wife duo ran the kitchen and tables, both of them round-faced, round-bodied, and radiating warmth like a brick oven.
They were busy—lunch rush—but managed to squeeze Henry and the Italian guy into a quiet corner booth.
After a rapid-fire Italian exchange between the host and his friend, the woman turned to Henry. “So, what’ll you have?”
“Pesto linguine with clams, one pizza, and an arancini,” he said. “Oh, and a bottle of white wine.”
The Italian and the woman both gave him a look—half amused, half impressed.
Henry shrugged. “Everything smells amazing. I want to try it all. Don’t worry—I’ll finish it. Big appetite.”
Then he turned to his new guide. “And hey, let’s split the bill. I’m not about to eat you out of house and home.”
That got a chuckle. The woman gave a dramatic wave and grin before heading back to the kitchen, chatting in Italian with her husband as she went.
Henry made a mental note. I should probably learn Italian someday. Hell, while he was at it, might as well add French, German, Swedish, Danish, Greek, Spanish, and Portuguese to the list. You heard all of them eventually in a city like L.A.
The Italian guy ordered a bowl of penne and leaned back with a smile. “If you’ve got the stomach for it, this place won’t disappoint.”
A moment later, the woman returned with the wine—a crisp white from somewhere in Italy—and poured them each a glass.
Henry sipped it slowly, letting it wash over his tastebuds. It had a bright, dry finish and a sharpness that tickled the back of his tongue. Not bad.
Kryptonian physiology meant he couldn’t really get drunk, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the pairing. In European cuisine, wine wasn’t a luxury. It was part of the meal. Like the French concept of mariage—the idea that wine and food should complement each other perfectly.
But food wasn’t the only thing on the table.
Henry set down his glass and looked at the briefcase resting beside the Italian man. “I assume you brought info on the rentals?”
“Easy there, kid. First, let me ask you a few things,” the guy said, clearly slipping into real estate mode. “Why are you in L.A.? How long are you staying? Got a budget? Willing to share a place?”
All fair questions.
Henry nodded. “I’m looking for opportunities in Hollywood. Could be a year, maybe longer. I’m not looking for anything fancy—definitely no Beverly Hills mansions. And as for roommates…”
Sure, splitting rent would save him money, but it also came with risks. He had secrets to keep and cash to protect. The last thing he needed was a nosy roommate or—worse—a would-be hookup with ulterior motives.
“I can afford to rent solo,” he said finally. “A bit of space would be nice.”
He took another sip of wine, feeling the warmth spread through his chest.
His new life in Los Angeles was just getting started.
