GINO REPURPOSED an old colonial farmhouse on the north shore of Long Island, somewhere east of Port Jefferson, in that winding country sprawl that stitches together Mount Sinai, Miller Place, and Sound Beach. These are long, sleepy country roads, canopied with lush dense greenery. It was here that he set up his own restaurant, fittingly dubbed “Gino’s Kitchen.”

How I wound up at the restaurant is a mystery. All I know is that I was there. It had retained some of its older architectural elements, but there was a kind of atrium with walls of lattice and ivy growing all over it. Small round tables were arrayed throughout this atrium area, with white tablecloths, covered with candles, hunks of ciabatta straight out of the brick oven, and wine glasses filled halfway with red and white. Servers swooped in and left like graceful birds.

As I walked through this part of the restaurant, I began to notice that only women were seated at the tables. Beautiful young Italian women. Or were they Italian-American women? They were looking at me as if I was attractive. There was that discernible moment of being overwhelmed, followed by a facial twitch that showed they were trying to regain their composure. Lovely chocolate-headed brunettes, sipping chianti, eyeballing me, inspecting me. But if I stayed … I told myself. But if I stayed … One of the Italian women had very pink, full lips.

In the kitchen inside the main house, there were enormous pots of water boiling. In went the fresh pasta, over here was the sauce, or gravy as some call it, bubbling up and spurting red, like the La Brea Tar Pits. It seemed like an army of chefs in white were shoveling in pizzas, beating eggs, drizzling vinaigrette. I peered down into the pot of sauce, could see hues of purple and orange on the surface. What was he putting in there? Chili pepper? Just then, Gino entered, a head like an eggplant, round, muscular, in a black t-shirt that read, “Gino’s Kitchen.”

“What the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?” he said to me. “Nothing,” I stammered. “I just was having a look at the sauce.” “Don’t you dare try to steal my fucking sauce recipe.” he said. “Get the fuck out now. Get the fuck out of my fucking kitchen!” There was a door at one end, and I sort of backed my way toward the door. Outside, the light was a strange kind of blue twilight gray. With a push and a shove, and a twist of a metal doorknob, I was out the door, back under the trees of Miller Place or wherever this was. More black SUVs pulled into the gravel parking lot, and I got on my way. Maybe I could hitch out to Orient. Take a ferry up to New England. Leave the island for good. It was quiet and a light breeze was rolling in off the sound as I started walking. In the distance, I could see the white spire of an old congregational church.