It’s hard  not to notice Europeans sizing you up at a restaurant––they do it to everybody––but to be spotted so obviously as an American is rather off-putting. But we bring it on ourselves. Outside of Asia where any European or American will stand out,  Londoners, Florentines and Berliners can tell at a glance if you are an American behaving as they expect you to. Scoffing is a regular pastime among them, just as Texans scoff at New Yorkers and Los Angelenos do San Franciscans.

         There are some things that are just not done in European countries where such things matter and may be a faux pas that exposes one’s class or lack thereof. Here are some tips on how to avoid that possibility.

         Clothes are an obvious giveaway: Most Europeans wince when they see an American wearing chinos or cargo shorts with white sox and a Hawaiian shirt. Flip-flops are not worn off the beach. Baseball caps are not worn backwards and t-shirts should not carry a garish message about your drinking habits or sexual preferences.

         When it comes to food and drink there are plenty of errors Americans make, just like seeing a Brit eat barbecued ribs with a knife and fork, or a Parisian ordering Champagne at a dive bar.

 

Iced tea is not something easily found in Europe, and they are not inclined or prepared to make it for you.

 

Never ask for ice cubes in your wine, especially red wine.

 

Europeans do drink Coca-Cola, not least with pizza in the middle of the day, but it is not a drink fit for dinner.

 

Don’t order a frozen cocktail like a daiquiri or margarita, because an electric mixer is unlikely to be part of a bar’s equipment and the ice dilutes a properly made drink.

 

Ordering a Cosmopolitan cocktail will bewilder bartenders abroad, who consider the drink an example of American overkill.

 

Stifle your look of dismay when a whole fish includes the head and tail, which is the way it is served in Europe.

 

For no known reason, switching your knife and fork from one hand to another is strictly American and looks bizarre to a European.

 

Folding pizza is not unknown in Italy, where it is called a libretto (little book), but it is the exception rather than the rule of using a knife and fork to cut up a slice.

 

Although most kitchens catering to tourists will have a bottle of ketchup and hot sauce on hand, asking for them will mark you as an American in the same way asking for  vinegar with French fries in the U.S. marks you as a Belgian.

 

One does not tip in a pub in the UK or Ireland.

In the U.S., twirling spaghetti into a tablespoon before eating is regarded as uncouth in Italy.

 

 

In Italy, ordering cappuccino after noontime is considered barbaric.

 

Never ask for more pasta sauce. Italian cooks only use as much as they believe is best for an individual dish.

 

Ordering your meat well-done is a sure giveaway you are uncouth.

 

Cutting up asparagus is frowned upon. Using a fork is okay but it’s actually better to pick it up and nibble on it.

 

Never take a bread roll, cut it in half, butter it and stuff it in your mouth. Break off a morsel with your fingers, butter it and eat it so your face isn’t scrunched up with such a large piece.

 

 

 

         Despite the delay in Dublin, the Aer Lingus flight was poised to land at JFK on time at two o’clock in the afternoon under a brilliant, sunny blue sky. The flight took them over Long Island and the clean white sand strip of Jones Beach and the small shapeless swampy islets that led to the Rockaways, landing lightly and taxiing to the gate. Katie was feeling uneasy again.

         As the Business Section of the plane emptied out, Katie and David, together with the policeman and the sky marshal,  saw a uniformed TSA man with a sign reading “CAVUTO-GRECO,” who led them out of the arrivals area and quickly through Customs. Upon exiting into the terminal, they were approached by two NYPD officers.

         “I know both these guys!” said David, elated both to be back on American soil and to find his old colleagues waiting. Seeing David smiling and embracing the two officers, Katie felt her anxiety drop away her for the first time in days.

         The officers walked them out of the terminal, and David noticed several TSA people on their phones monitoring their exit. The officers had an unmarked car waiting at the curb and helped Katie and David into the back seat.

         “Welcome back, Greco,” said a plainclothes policeman in the front seat next to the driver. David smiled from ear to ear and said, “Rossi, they got you chauffeuring me home? How the hell are you, family good?”

         “Everybody’s fine. Good to see you, David. Glad you got home safe. We heard there was some trouble in Dublin.”

         “More than enough for one trip,” said David and introduced Katie to the men, who acknowledged they knew of Katie and her reputation as a journalist.

         “Whaddaya doing hanging around with this old man?” asked Rossi.

         “Oh, this old man’s pretty good in a pinch,” said Katie, nudging David.

         “Bet he is,” said Rossi, winking at David. “So, first we’ll get you home, Katie, then drive David up the Hudson. Hope you don’t mind us talking some old times on the way.”

         Rossi was about ten years younger than David and had served on his rackets team. Now he was an Inspector, with the New York City airports his territory. David caught up on the news about mutual friends, and in twenty minutes the car pulled up to Katie’s home on Campbell Drive in the Bronx.

         “So, we survived another one,” said Katie, giving David a hug. “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing.”

         “You’re getting too old? Believe me, if it weren’t for you we’d both be floating somewhere in Dublin Bay.”

         Katie said that she’d be finishing off the story as quickly as possible at the office, “with Alan hanging over my shoulder,” and that David would have to come in to go over details, maybe in three or four days. It sounded like forever to David to be away from Katie.

 

 

                                                           *                         *                         *  
            

 

         The work went well, and Alan Dobell gave Katie as much support as possible, having other reporters chase down leads, check phone numbers and addresses, calling hotels and parishes and feeding her endless questions as her copy came in.

         She had been so busy and spent so much time at the office, she had put thoughts of any further attacks on her out of her mind and found the office was as secure a place as she could be for most of the day. David came by after a week to deliver more information and confirm what Katie had written so far. He never felt comfortable around all those brainy, young journalists, as he had always suspected their motives when he was a cop, always looking for an angle, questioning cops’ veracity.

         But in a very real way, David was a hero to McClure’s staff, not only because he had been through harrowing times with Katie but because he really had added a police inspector’s expertise on so many counts.

         By the time Katie was nearly finished her first draft,  Dobell was trying to puzzle out if the story needed any further reporting. He certainly was not about to send Katie and David back to Dublin unless there was another murder or mutilation. But he did think that Katie’s story would be stronger if she confronted some of the Church officials on this side of the Atlantic, at least give them a chance to respond to her charges.

         Katie asked David what his police friends like Tommy Sullivan or Maria Colón thought about going to see the Archbishop of New York, Edward Egan, but they said the case would be weak unless a high official’s name was in the Network’s book. Egan’s wasn’t, but Bernard Francis Law’s was—the Archbishop of Boston, the one who had slammed shut the Boston Globe investigation back in the 1980s.

         “I think you should pay this guy Law a visit,” said Dobell. “Tell him what you’ve been up to—and I’ve got a feeling he’s well aware of you—then show him the book, get his reaction, then ask him what his name is doing in the book. Put his feet to the fire.”

         Katie agreed. “Should David come along?”

         “I don’t see why you’d need him for a simple one-on-one interview. Just call the diocese, get an appointment and fly up there. It should be the clincher and the closer to the story.”

 

 

 ❖❖❖

 

NOTES FROM THE WINE CELLAR

         It’s still true that in the U.S. Chardonnay outsells all other American white wines combined, but recent trends in the market show that while Chardonnay fell 4.7% in 2024, both Sauvignon Blanc and Pinot Grigio (or Pinot Gris) gained in sales––not by much, but the trend is upwards, according to Meininger’s International.

         Some of Chardonnay’s decline may be due to the rising prices on the varietal, especially among prestigious labels who are charging $50 and up per bottle for wines that are sometimes too high in alcohol, cloying caramelized and charred oak flavors. Chardonnay, which is a fairly neutral grape that lends itself to such manipulating.

         The reason that few other white American wines lacked any traction until recently is because they were either lackluster, like the ocean of Italian Pinot Grigios exported or, like the grassiness in Sauvignon Blanc and the pungent aromatics of Viognier and Gewürztraminer. Over the past decade, however, wineries have learned to produce these lesser varietals with  better balance. California vintners’ Sauvignon Blanc, in particular, tried to copy the immensely popular of New Zealand’s Cloud Bay, which tasted more like Hawaiian Punch poured over grape leaves.

         American Sauvignon Blancs (sometimes called Fumé Blancs) have since departed from that over-ripe, perfumed style, as well as cut back on the intensity of aromatics in Viognier and Gewürztraminer, while allowing Pinot Grigios to develop more body than so many bland examples still in the market.

         Here are some I applaud for just those reasons:

 

 

ETUDE PINOT GRIS GRACE BENOIST RANCH ESTATE 2021 ($35). At about two-thirds the price of Chardonnay of this quality, Etude’s Pinot Gris gains from a little more aging than the usual one-to-two years. The estate is planted with Alsatian clones, and 2021 was very favorable for well-ripened fruit. The wine stayed on the lees for four months and aged in stainless steel, never seeing the inside of an oak barrel, so its freshness and creaminess along with minerality makes for an impressive white wine. 

 

 

 

WILLIAM HILL ESTATE 2023 SAUVIGNON BLANC ($16). There is a good deal of fruit flavor in this wine, not least a pleasing citrus spark and sweet pear component. The winery has changed hands several times, now owned by Gallo since 2007, and the screw top cap should put off no one who enjoys an easy to drink white wine as either an aperitif or with cream sauces and pastas like cacio e pepe.

 

 

ALEXANA PINOT GRIS HILLSIDES 2023 ($35). This fine example comes from the oldest Pinot Gris vines in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, from Alexana Estate, Stone Ridge Vineyard and Stone Ridge Vineyard, planted only in 2021 and fermented in either stainless steel or neutral oak (sometimes French oak).  The soil contains plenty of sedimentary silt and volcanic stone that adds measurably to the minerality of the grapes to provide the wines with levels if nuanced flavors.

 

 

STAGS’ LEAP SAUVIGNON BLANC  2023  ($35). As a winery Stags’ Leap has quite a pedigree, founded in 1872 and has had several caretakers since, currently Beringer, now Treasury Wine Estates. It spends a moderate seven-month aging period in 38% neutral oak and in addition emerges with a big 14.2% alcohol, so it’s a formidable example of Sauvignon Blanc with a long, elegant finish. Very good with shellfish.

 

 

SAN SIMEON PASO ROBLES VIOGNIER ($19).  Paso Robles is a dry climate that produces ripe fruit, but the cool nights keep the acidity to balance things out. It has a lovely bouquet of fruit, not flowers, and boasts 14.9% alcohol, which is very high, fermented in stainless steel exclusively. It, too, has a screwcap, which, like New Zealand wines, is wholly admirable at this point in stopper history. Viognier can be flabby but the acid here lessens that without dropping the critical fruit flavors of peach and a touch of sweetness.