I take another bite and another sip and think about how easy it would be to let my head go somewhere else—her hands, the line of her throat when she tipped her head, the soft swell beneath her dark chef’s jacket. I don’t. I eat. I’m here to decide if I want this woman in my kitchen every day. And also, if I can manage it if I do.
Next is meat. It should be. Francesca puts down a new knife without asking. She swaps my glass. This one’s Piedmont. Barbera. Good choice if the next course is not too heavy.
The plate comes. It’s veal saltimbocca, but not the flattened, floured, drowned-in-wine version you see on menus. This is cut thicker, pounded just enough, seared hard, sage leaves tucked cleanly, prosciutto crisped, not wet.
The sauce is a reduced pan sauce with a touch of Marsala, not sweet, mounted right. On the side is a small pile of sautéed escarole with garlic and a few pine nuts.
I cut into the veal and check for pink. There’s a hint. She didn’t overdo it. The salt of the prosciutto is perfect. I put a bite of the greens with the next fork, then the wine. The Barbera has enough acid to handle the fat. I know what she’s doing. She’s not trying to impress with foam or flowers or towers. She’s giving me the bones of a kitchen. If this is the food she sends when she’s on the pass and also cooking, I can work with that.
She doesn’t come right away this time. She lets me finish half before she steps out. She watches the plate and then me.
“The cook on the veal,” I start.
“If it’s too rare for you, I’ll take it all the way next time,” she says.
“Not too rare,” I say and take a sip of my wine. “It seems like you knew what you were doing.”
She holds my eyes for a long beat longer. “I do know what I’m doing.”
“Sit,” I say.
She looks at the room, at the pass, back at me.
“Two minutes,” I add. “You can see the door.”
She slips into the chair across from me like she’s done it a thousand times, but I can see in her shoulders that she hasn’t. She keeps her back half off the chair, ready to move. She rests her hands on the table, left over right, nails clean, no polish. A ring on her right hand I recognize. Old family gold. Not wedding.
“I don’t do this,” she says. “Sitting in the room while my food’s out.”
“You do tonight,” I say. “I asked.”
“You did,” she says.
“Why these plates?” I ask. “You could’ve gone fishing for compliments. Tricks. You didn’t.”
“Fancy plates don’t make food taste better,” she says, simply.
“Most people still try,” I say.
“I’m not most people.” She tips her chin toward the door. “I should—”
“Eat a bite, then go.” I hold the fork out.
She shakes her head. “I don’t eat when I cook.”
“Bad habit,” I say.
“It works,” she says, standing. “One more, then dessert.”
“Good,” I say.
She leaves. Francesca slides a small glass in front of me. Not wine. A splash of amaro with a cube. “Palate check,” she says.
I take a small sip. It’s not sweet. It scrapes the last of the veal off. Smart.
The next plate must be the surprise. It’s a bowl. Shallow. In it, a tangle of puntarelle—that bitter Roman chicory you don’t seemuch here—dressed with anchovy and lemon, shaved ice-cold. On top, a just-poached egg, soft as a pillow. On the side, a thin slice of toasted bread with nothing on it. The pairing is a small pour of Etna Bianco, not the Rosso from before. North and south of the same mountain.
I crack the egg and let the yolk run through the puntarelle. The heat of the egg takes the chill off the greens. The anchovy is strong, then fades into the fat of the yolk. It’s a small dish. A reset. Not on the printed menu here, I’d bet. It’s something she wanted to do because she wanted to see if I get it.
