She flicks her eyes at me. “Observing, huh?”
“Yes,” I say precisely. “Observing.”
“Uh-huh” is all she says.
Carmen keeps working. The knife rhythm is clean, no wasted motion. She brushes the basil into a deli tub and snaps the lid.
“Ma here?” I ask.
“Up front with Tomas,” she says. “Probably arguing.”
The walk-in hisses when Elio duck-walks out with a bin of lemons. He nods at me, then at the pot. “On point,” he says, proud of it like it’s his.
I drift to the pass. Lowboys are stocked. Squeeze bottles lined up like soldiers—oil, lemon, chili, balsamic, one unlabeled that I open and sniff. Anchovy. Good. The grill is hot; Carmen throws a test piece of bread and watches it mark. Fryer reads two-seventy-five. I make a note to bump it when the second basket drops. In my head. Not out loud.
The back door pushes in, and the bread guy shoves a plastic tote through, says, “Bread,” and is gone. He never waits to be thanked. Carmen slides the tote into the rack, covers it with a towel, done.
Francesca comes through the door like a small storm. Black slacks, white blouse, hair sprayed so tight nothing will move. She doesn’t see me first. She goes straight to the red, lifts the lid, stirs once, tastes. Her face doesn’t give much. She parks the spoon in the same porcelain rest Nonna used, in the groove the old woman wore into it. Then she sees me.
“You’re here to work?” she asks. The tone is neutral. The eyes aren’t.
“Just to watch,” I say.
“Then keep your hands in your pockets,” she says, and goes to the board.
I do a lap through the dining room. Tomas has the chart open at the podium, a pen behind his ear, glasses sliding down. He runs me through the book: “Five-thirty two-top window, six o’clock afour, six-thirty a six with a high chair, seven o’clock city hall trio—‘no photos’—and the usual amount of walk-ins.”
Zia is polishing glasses, eyeing each one carefully. She glances up. “Coming to work?”
I stifle a sigh. “Just watching tonight,” I say.
“Good girl.” She goes back to her glasses.
After a while, the sign is flipped to OPEN, and the door chimes immediately.
Everyone pushes their shoulders back and pastes on a smile.
First in are the Schultzes, table three. Apparently, they do the same order every time but they pretend it’s all a surprise. After them, two suits slide onto bar stools and ask for Negronis. A family with a stroller squeezes through, already apologizing about not having a reservation. Zia waves them quiet and parks them near the corner with space for the stroller.
Back in the kitchen, the first tickets hit. “Two meatballs, one clams, one salad, no onions,” Carmen calls. The line repeats without looking away from their pans. The printer starts its cough.
I post up by the pass and watch. My mother stands where Nonna stood for thirty years—center, one step back, eyes everywhere. She checks plates without scolding. She wipes what needswiping. She moves a parsley leaf like it matters. It does. She doesn’t talk unless there’s something to say.
“Bibi,” Elio says, sliding by with a pan of dishes to clean. “Since you’re just standing around tonight, want to pitch in on dishes?”
“Just watching tonight, Elio,” I repeat for the millionth time.
Carmen flicks her eyes up at me. “How long you staying in ‘observe’ mode before your hands start doing things on their own?”
“We’ll see.”
She snorts, goes back to the sauté. The flame licks up, and she doesn’t flinch.
Out front, Tomas is playing traffic cop, but charmingly. Two tables arrive at the same time; he smiles at both, sits one, buys time with olives for the other.
The room fills. The printer speeds up. The grill guy curses when a steak gives him trouble. He presses with his finger, tests the give, calls it correctly. Marnie runs desserts early to defuse a whiny kid; she’s been doing this long enough to know when to sugar-bomb preemptively.
A ticket hits the rail: Two “whatever Sabina would have wanted.” Francesca looks at it for half a second and says, “Eggplant.” Carmen’s already salting the slices. The smell off the pan is right—oil, garlic, a hint of scorch. Cheese goes on, then under the salamander. It bubbles, sets, comes out clean.
