I close my eyes for one second. “I would marry this broth.”
Bianca laughs, delighted. “That’s the right answer. It’s also the test batch, and I can already tell I want five percent more acid if the crudo sits longer than two minutes.” She’s already reaching for the lemon, her body making the decision at the same time her brain does.
“Caterina told me you trained at the CIA and did time in Italy,” I say, setting the spoon back down. “Also, that your family’s restaurant, Regalia, is an institution.”
“Those are mostly the right facts,” she says, easily. “CIA, yes. Italy, yes—modest terror under a chef who threw a pan onmy first day and then spent an hour teaching me why he was wrong for doing it. Didn’t stop him from doing it again the next week.” She laughs. “Regalia is my grandmother’s house more than a restaurant. We keep her photo by the kitchen door. It keeps us honest and proud.”
“That’s lovely,” I say softly. “I’m sure she’d be proud of you.”
Bianca’s eyes warm, the way people’s do when thinking of someone who’s no longer here. “Nonna Sabina wouldn’t settle for anything less. Sweet woman. Hard ass.” She laughs.
It brings a grin to my face, imagining her sweet little grandma being the boss.
“When we open here, we are not cloning Regalia. That would be a crime and a bore. We’re lifting its bones with a little more elegance and restraint. Fancifying it but not boringly so.”
I can picture exactly what she means, and it sounds lovely. “Family structure, new skin.”
“Exactly,” Bianca says, satisfied. “Do you want to indulge me and let me show you the dining room, even though you probably know exactly how many tables are in there and where?”
I feign ignorance. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’d love it if you showed me the dining room.”
“Great! Come on,” she says, wiping her hands and coming around the line to the swing door that leads to the dining room.
She presses through the swing door with her hip, and I follow, the low hum of the hoods giving way to the softer acoustics of the dining room.
Even under painter’s paper and taped-off aisles, I can see the potential of the room. Pale plaster, linen-draped banquettes that still wear their muslin covers, a long run of windows catching a slate-blue strip of ocean.
The host stand waits like a small stage, ready for opening night. The wine wall gleams without being obnoxiously loud.
Bianca pauses just inside and breathes it in, then points. “That banquette curve was a fight,” she says. “I wanted it gentler so servers can hug the turn with a tray. We shaved two inches on Tuesday.” She tilts her head at me. “You were going to check the cocktail pass distance?”
“From here to the lounge threshold,” I say, walking the line and counting steps. “If we stage a tray jack between table twelve and fourteen, we keep the servers out of the pinch by the column.”
“Good,” she says, already picturing it. “No ballroom twirls with martinis.”
We drift to center. She lifts a corner of paper from a two-top and smooths it back down, protective even of the temporary. “I told myself I’d wait a week,” she adds, wryly. “But I got an update on the kitchen this morning and, well… I couldn’t stay away.”
“I heard you were planning to be back next week.” I keep the tone light, a little teasing. “How’s the little one?”
Her whole face softens. “He’s great. Loud. Perfect.” She pulls her phone from her jacket, taps, and turns the screen.
A newborn stares back—dark hair in soft whorls, dark eyes wide like he’s already seeing and taking in everything.
“Oh,” I breathe. “He’s beautiful. Those eyes, so dark for a newborn.”
“Gio says they’re trouble eyes,” she says, amused. “I say they’re Conti eyes.” She swipes to a photo of a tiny fist around an adult knuckle. “Stephano is three months tomorrow,” she says, pride threading through the word.
I laugh. “Congratulations. Three months is… brave to be back on a line.”
“It’s also sanity,” she says, unashamed. “I love him like my own heart—because he is—but I also love this. Gio gets it. We tag in and out.”
She puts the phone away and clicks back to the dining room mentally. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see any other notes you have for the floor.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll send those over tonight.”
She tips her head toward the kitchen. “I’m going to steal five more minutes with the flattop and then go home before I decide to reorganize the walk-in. You good on your side?”
“I’m perfect,” I say, and for once the word doesn’t feel like pressure. “Thanks for letting me crash your practice run.”
