By 6:00 in the morning, Rome begins again.
A truck rattles over the stones below my window. Metal shutters climb with violent little shrieks. Someone in the courtyard coughs like they’ve been smoking since the fall of the Republic. The room is pale with early light, and my phone islying face-down on the bedside table exactly where I left it after the alarm.
I turn it over.
No new message from Ethan.
Good.
I open Diana’s thread instead.
Serena: First table was Santa Livia. Strong room, better kitchen. Sending notes after coffee.
Diana replies three minutes later, which means she’s either already awake in New York or never went to sleep.
Diana: You landed yesterday.
Serena: I’m aware.
Diana: You went straight to dinner.
Serena: Also aware.
Diana: This is why I assigned you Europe. Normal people need adjustment periods.
Serena: Normal people miss things.
Diana: Send the notes.
I smile despite myself and set the phone down. Diana Marsh doesn’t waste praise. She has a severe black bob, a permanent line between her brows, and the professional patience of a woman who’s built an entire career around making writers better while refusing to soothe them for needing improvement.She edits Palate like a courtroom. Evidence first. Flourish only if it survives cross-examination. She’s the reason ‘The Unvarnished Table’has become something chefs pretend not to read and publicists pretend not to fear.
She’s also the reason I’m here. Eight weeks. Five cities. Rome, San Sebastián, Lyon, Paris, and whatever final leg Diana added because she enjoys pretending impossible schedules are personality tests. The official assignment is a summer survey of European dining right before half the industry shuts itself into August habits. New openings, old institutions, regional anchors, restaurants with enough mythology around them to require a knife. I requested Rome first. Diana didn’t ask why. She knew better.
By 7:00, I’m showered, dressed, and standing at a café bar two streets from the hotel with an espresso cooling too quickly in front of me. The man behind the counter is broad, bald, and suspicious of indecision. He watches me take the first sip.
“Buono?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
He points at the cornetti beneath the glass.
“One?”
“No, thank you.”
He points again, more sternly. I look at the pastry, then at him.
“You feel strongly about this.”
“Yes,” he says.
“Fine. One.”
He places it on a small plate with the gravity of a judge delivering a verdict. The cornetto is still warm. The pastry flakes against my fingertips, leaving butter on my skin and apricot jam at the corner of my mouth. I wipe it away with a paper napkin and take another sip of espresso.
The barista nods once.
Approval.
