The pass is empty for a moment. The salamander hisses. Then we’re away again.
Secondi. This is where the langoustines headline.
I set a wide sauté pan on high heat, another on medium. Oil, garlic crushed and, in a whisper of chili, two halved cherry tomatoes for color and acid, a splash of white wine that jumps and steams. I lift the langoustines out, pat dry, salt, then lay them down. Sear. Flip. A knob of butter and a squeeze of lemon at the end, chopped parsley like confetti.
Transfer on to warmed platters: three per adult, split down the belly so the meat shows, claws cracked, shells glistening. They smell like sea and butter. Wine is Fiano—almond and smoke, nothing cute.
For the girls: one langoustine each, meat pulled and set back into the shell so they don’t have to fight for it, plus a little cup of lemon butter with a brush of honey, and a slice of soft white bread to clean their plates. Their drink is cold watermelon juice with a pinch of mint, shaken to wake it up.
“Hands steady,” I say, laying the last sprigs. “Hot plates.”
Beside the langoustines, I send the meat course—thinly sliced veal saltimbocca done right. Not pounded into paper, not drowned.
Sage under the prosciutto so the leaf perfumes the meat, quick pan sauce with Marsala reduced, finished with a knob of butter and a squeeze of lemon to brighten it.
It sits beside roasted potatoes with rosemary and a tumble of sautéed escarole with garlic and anchovies, just enough funk to make the point. Wine shifts to Barbera, bright, acidic, friendly with fat.
For the girls, small slices of roasted chicken, skin crispy, meat juicy—with a spoon of the potatoes and a mound of green beans blanched and tossed with olive oil and salt. Their drink is a little orange–carrot blend that tastes like sunshine and won’t stain if spilled.
“Two hands per plate,” I say. “If you wobble, stop and reset.”
The kitchen moves like a well-oiled machine. Vivian steps in, watches the pass without stepping on it, and reads my board in a glance.
“Everything on time?” she asks.
“So far,” I say, eyes on a plate that needs a wipe. I take the towel from a runner gently and show him the difference between smear and clean. He nods and does it.
I send more bread, warm, sliced thick.
Cool insalata after the warm. I keep it simple—bitter leaves and tender lettuce, shaved fennel, thin coins of radish, avinaigrette that knows how to stay out of the way. A few toasted walnuts. A plate for each adult, small bowls for the girls with extra cucumbers and no walnuts. Wine drops down to a crisp Verdicchio.
“Salad is not a negotiation,” I say to the staff when they slow, thinking this course is optional. “It resets the room. Keep moving.”
They move.
The pass clears a little. I lean into the counter and breathe once, then push off.
I’m lining up boards for formaggi e frutta when the door swings open behind me. I feel him immediately. I stiffen but try not to make it obvious.
I feel him walk up next to me and watch. I glance up at him, then back to the plates.
He does and doesn’t belong in the room somehow. Dark sweater, expensive cologne, his hair swept back. His eyes take in everything. About me.
He looks at my hands, the pass, the board on the wall.
“How’s it going?” he asks in that low voice that sends tingles through me.
“On time,” I say, placing a thin slice of taleggio just so. “Formaggi and fruit next. Then dessert.”
He nods once, then adds, “They like you.” A beat. “They like dinner.”
I don’t let myself smile. “Good.”
“Elena said to tell you the langoustine should be illegal,” he says. “Luca asked where I found you.” He lets that linger and moves closer to the pass, scanning plates like he’s the last check. He isn’t. I am. Still, I don’t hate that he looks.
“Tell Elena she can have the recipe,” I say, then wince. “Though I’m not sure it’ll come out the same at her hand.”
That gets the corner of his mouth to move. “No. No, it won’t.” He taps the board once with a knuckle. “You ate?”
