He opens his mouth like he’s going to insist on going with me, then closes it, recalculates. “Marco will go with you,” he decides. “He is ugly but strong.” Then he waves a hand.
I can’t help but laugh, which turns a bit watery. “I’m all right. I have help.”
“Okay, bene. You call me when you get home. Capito?”
“Capito,” I say, because there is no universe in which I argue with that tone.
He watches me for another beat. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “And if this Regalia hurts you, you come home. C’è sempre un posto per te. Always.”
My throat goes tight again. “I know.”
“Bene.” He slaps the bar lightly and stands up straighter, shaking off the weight like a dog shakes off water. “Now, we stop before I cry, and Paola makes jokes for a year.”
I laugh, and it’s almost normal.
He glances at the clock above the door and does the mental math of lunch. “You tell me one thing before you go,” he says, suddenly. “What will be your first menu—there, in America. Primo piatto, secondo. Tell me, and I will tell you if you are lying to yourself.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Opening night?” I say.
“Sì.”
“Keep it simple,” I say. “Tortellini in brodo to honor here. Not cute. Perfect. Then grilled local fish with salsa verde and braised fennel. A small saffron risotto to start, if I can get the rice I want. Greens with lemon. A panna cotta that stands on its own.”
His eyes soften with pride and satisfaction. “Brava,” he says. “This menu is humble and exact. Humble and exact wins the war.”
“I learned from you.”
“Eh,” he says, pretending to shoo the compliment away, catching it anyway. “Go. Take my heart out of my kitchen before I keep you like the selfish old man I am.”
I stand. He pulls me in again, less thunder, more anchor. When he lets me go, he pats my cheek with a hand that has burned and blessed a thousand times. “Vai,” he says. “E scrivimi. Write me.”
“I will,” I say. “I promise.”
We push back through the kitchen together. He returns to his center like he never left; the staff look up, hungry for the next order. He raises a hand to the room like a conductor about to cue the strings. “Ragazzi—onore alla nonna,” he announces. “Today we cook so well the angels ask for a reservation.”
They cheer softly. Paola blows me a kiss. Marco flicks his chin toward the door like, vai, I got this.
I slip my coat back on. Chef catches my sleeve at the last second. “One more thing,” he says, eyes going narrow again with mischief. He reaches past me to the low shelf under the pass and pulls out an old wooden spoon—deep bowl, scarred edge, handle worn smooth where a thousand fingers have worried it on a thousand nights. He presses it into my palm.
“Per quando ti manca casa,” he says. “For when you miss home.”
“Chef,” I say, throat gone again.
He winks, rough. “Don’t make me take it back.”
“Never.”
I tuck the spoon into my bag like it’s made of glass and gold.
The bell over the front door rings as the first early bird pokes his head in. Gianni from the tobacco shop, who always eats at 11:30 and falls asleep over his espresso at noon.
I hover in the doorway, selfish, stealing one more look: the line drawing together like a pulled thread, Chef in the center like a happy storm.
He catches me looking, flicks his wrist: vai. Go. I go.
Outside, the air is colder than I expect; the sky is the color of aluminum. Under the portico, a couple argues softly, shopping bags tucked against their ankles. A cyclist rings a bell and slides by in a bright scarf.
The city picks up pace around me, the way it always does before lunch: napkins at the ready, pots simmering, someone in every kitchen tasting and adjusting, tasting and adjusting.
