My 5-year-old son proved he's a true Italian-American male at a neighborhood eatery with his parents the other night. The boy transformed into a mini Marcello Mastroianni when three done-up teenage girls walked into the place and sat next to us in line for a table.

"My, aren't you ladies beautiful," my boy said in a much lower-pitched voice than typically accompanies a kindergartner's body. "Would you like to join my family for dinner?"

My wife and I looked at each other, wondering what happened to our son.

"Did you let him watch your Fellini movies again?" my wife asked me.

"Those movies are subtitled," I said in my defense. "He can't read. And he certainly doesn't understand Italian."

"Pay no attention to my parents," my son told the females he was entertaining. "How 'bout a hug for the kid here?"

My wife cleared her throat, as if to say to my son, "Excuse me, what did you say?"

"Do you need a shooter there, Mommsy?" the boy asked his mother. "That'll clear that block in your asparagus and your broccoli tubes." The girls laughed.

My wife searched the surrounding crowd for disapproval. She didn't want anyone to think she and I were horrible parents, introducing a 5year-old to "shooters" and raising him to talk in such a manner. I told my wife that nobody was paying attention.

"How does he know what a shooter is?" my wife asked me.

"How should I know?" I said. By this time, my son was moving in on the girls, weaving his head sideto-side like Marlon Brando in "On the Waterfront."

"You girls want a shooter?" he asked coolly. The girls giggled. "How 'bout a nice cold glass of 2 percent followed by a juice box chaser?"

Just then, two more teenage girls joined the female party.

"Va-va-voom!" my son said at their arrival to the scene. "Am I dreaming? Where have you been all my whole life?"

My wife shot me a look that seemed to include loaded guns aimed at my head.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked her. "I didn't teach him any of that stuff." I tried to reel my son in and cool him down. But little Romeo was on fire. He knelt down on the floor before the feet of one of the girls.

"My gazelle, would you like me to sing you a love song?" the boy asked. My wife looked at me again; this time her guns were cocked and screwed into my forehead. And then my son broke into sweet serenade.

"I love you, I love yoooouuuu, and I love your beautiful friends, tooooooo," he sang. To enhance the musical experience, my 5-year-old climbed into the girl's lap. Inches from her face, he asked, "Why are you so far away?"

Had my wife been paying attention to our boy, and not crucifying me for the kid's unacceptable behavior, the two of us could've stopped him from planting a big, juicy kiss on the girl's cheek.

"How cute," the young teen said. She kissed him back. Add about 10 years to my son's age and he wouldn't be cute. He'd be under arrest.

The restaurant host finally announced that our table was ready. My wife was relieved.

"I'll be here next week," my son told the girl as we separated the two. It didn't take much effort to move our boy since, after his smooch, he was floating in air to our table.

My wife and I gave our son a talking to.

"I'm so sorry, Mom and Dad," he said to us. "I love you, too. I love everyone." He was almost back to normal. And then he said, "For the record, that kiss was the best that girl will ever do."

My wife gasped. She was so embarrassed. I said I was embarrassed, too.

When I got home, I called my dad. "You know what my son did tonight?"

I was really proud. E-mail Michael Picarella at michael.picarella@gmail.com. To read more of his stories, go to www.michaelpicarellacolumn .blogspot.com.