She gives one short nod and looks at the table like she’s checking that I have what I need. Water, wine, knife, fork. She’s already turning away when I say, “You doing this alone?”
“I have a line,” she says. “But yes. It’s mine.”
I hold her eyes. She doesn’t blink. She goes back through the door without trying to sell me anything.
The room does what restaurants do. Forks clattering. Low talk. Someone at the bar laughs too loudly, and Tomas drops a hand on his shoulder on the way by and the laugh dies off.
First plate is delivered without fuss. Francesca sets it down, announces nothing, and leaves.
It’s a single scallop, dry-seared, no color games. Under it, a thin slice of grilled lemon. Around it, a small tangle of shaved fennel and celery leaves with oil and a hit of salt. There’s a small spoon of something I don’t place until I taste it—anchovy butter, barely there.
I cut into the scallop. It’s warm in the center, not raw. I try it alone first. Sweet and simple. I drag the second bite through the butter and pair it with a piece of the lemon, then a strand of fennel. It all goes perfectly together.
The Verdicchio works. Not showy. Cleans the butter off the tongue. I finish the plate. Bread gets the last of the lemon and the smear of butter. I don’t sop. I collect. Clean plate back on the table.
Bianca comes out. Doesn’t ask if I liked it. She looks at the empty plate, then at me.
“Good,” I say.
“Good,” she echoes like a note in a ledger, then, “Pasta next.”
“Of course,” I say.
She leaves again. The room gets a little louder as we move into prime dinnertime. A family at the window takes a picture. They don’t angle it in my direction. Good.
Second pour. Not white. Chianti Classico, not the cheap stuff, not the trophy either. Francesca pours short. I let it sit while the pasta comes up.
It’s cavatelli. Hand-rolled, not machine. Dressed with broccoli rabe, garlic, a few slices of Calabrian chili, a dusting of pecorino, toasted crumbs. I can smell the greens from here. Bitter, right.
I take a bite. The chew on the cavatelli is right. Not gummy, not raw. She cooked the rabe enough to tame it, not enough to kill it. Oil coats but doesn’t drown. Heat arrives on the tail end but doesn’t burn. I take another bite with the wine. Complimentary. Neither is fighting for dominance. I eat slower on purpose, wanting to savor the last bite as much as the first.
Bianca comes out again. Still no “how is everything?” She looks at the bowl. I didn’t leave even one piece of pasta.
“Salt is a touch too much on the pecorino,” I say. “Not the dish. The cheese.”
She tips her head once. “Tomorrow it’ll be a different wheel.”
“Good,” I say.
Francesca clears, fills water, leaves it.
For the next course, she pours a red deeper than the Chianti. Barolo would be predictable. This is Etna Rosso. I can taste the volcano before I lift the glass. She somehow knew that was my thing.
Bianca comes with the plate herself this time. She sets it down. No flourish. It’s swordfish. Most people drown swordfish with sauce to hide the dryness. Not here. It’s a thinner cut, cooked fast, edge crisp, center moist. Under it is a bed of chickpeas dressed with lemon and a little rosemary, and around it a tapenade dotted small so you don’t get a mouthful of one thing. A few slivers of grilled pepper trail the edge. It looks like something Sabina would respect.
I cut a small bite of the fish and go straight to it. She nailed the cook. The edge cracks. The inside is still real food texture, not chalk. I get a chickpea with the next bite and a dot of tapenade. The olive doesn’t run the show as it so often does.
“Who did the fish?” I ask when she returns.
“I did,” she says. “That was the deal, right?”
“Good answer,” I say.
She doesn’t smile. Her eyes flick to the glass. “You like the Etna?”
“I do,” I say.
She nods once and leaves again.
