This morning, Mom and Tony were both gone when I woke up. I spent some time catching up on emails, and texting with Maria and my dad, before I came here.
I execute a flip-turn and push off the wall, my body instinctively knowing what to do. That’s what I love about swimming. I can shut off my brain and just let my body be in control.
Well, normally I can. Today, that subspace level of peace I normally achieve is elusive. I’ve been here for almost an hour and while my body is tired, my mind is not.
When I reach the other end, I grab onto the edge, gasping for breath. I rip my goggles off my face and pull off my swim cap, dunking under to rinse my hair. Then I push myself out of the water, gather my things, and make my way to the hot tub, which is thankfully empty aside from the older woman at the far end.
Sinking down into the warm water, I let my head fall back on the edge and close my eyes. My heart rate and breathing are returning to normal, but my thoughts are still spinning.
I know I won’t be able to avoid him while I’m here, and truthfully, I don’t know if I want to. Seeing him cracked something open in my chest, and I know I won’t be able to close the wound without talking to him.
Later, after I’ve showered and put some normal clothes back on, I’m driving my rental car through Vancouver back to Mom and Tony’s house when I pass the trattoria we went to the other day.
On impulse, I pull into an open parking spot and decide to treat myself to a solo lunch. I used to do this once a month in Italy. Drive somewhere, find a new restaurant, and eat by myself. There’s something different that happens when I experience food without others. My senses can fully engage, and I can take my time and appreciate the flavours and the skill that goes into even the simplest of dishes.
Basically, the foodie chef in me can live her best life.
And while Piatti isn’t a new restaurant for me, it is an unfamiliar one. And when Mom and I were here, there were plenty of items on the menu I wanted to sample. Maybe save some ideas to take back to Italy.
Pushing open the doors, I’m again greeted by that sumptuous aroma of Italian cooking. Garlic, tomatoes, olive oil, and a hint ofsmokiness that speaks to there possibly being a wood-fired oven in the kitchen.
I’m seated near a window in the back, surrounded by lush plants. This time, I take a moment to look around, with a restaurateur’s eye, not just as a customer. Brickwork on one wall, an open rack of wines on another, and warm tones of cream and terracotta with the pops of vibrant green from all of the plants. The ambience is a wonderful blend of rustic, old-world charm with a modern edge that is somehow still welcoming. With the repairs and renovations happening at the restaurant in Italy, I can only hope my boss Vito goes for a similar vibe.
The hostess pours some lemon water into my glass, and after thanking her, I take a long drink. I’m thirsty from my swim, and starving, so I immediately open the menu to begin perusing the offerings.
Finally, my brain shuts off from thoughts of Kai and focuses on my one true passion in life.
Food.
When my server returns, I’m no closer to making a decision. I look up at her with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. There’s so many things I want to try, I don’t know how to choose.”
She simply inclines her head with a smile of her own. “We get that a lot. Would you like some suggestions? Or I could send our chef out to help you decide.”
My eyebrows raise at the offer. Granted, it’s not that busy, being after what would usually be a lunch rush, but still it’s surprising to hear a server offer the chef’s attention so readily. “Oh no, I couldn’t ask them to do that.”
“Trust me, he loves it.”
“I can understand that, I love meeting customers as well.”
“Oh, are you a chef? Then I have to send him out.” She hurries off to the kitchen without giving me a chance to protest, so I fold my menu and wait.
Not for long, however. A minute or two later, a handsome man in a white chef's coat comes strolling up to my table.
“Welcome to Piatti,” he says with a warm twinkle in his brown eyes. He’s got a faint Italian accent that instantly makes me feel like I'm home. “I’m Gianni, owner and head chef. And I hear you’re having a hard time deciding what to order?”
I blush and take his outstretched hand. Then blush even harder when he lifts it to his mouth and kisses the back of it. “Yes, hi, lovely to meet you. I’m Isabelle.”
Gianni gestures to the chair across from me, and I nod my head. He sits down and folds his hands on the table. “My staff tell me you are having trouble choosing some food. You are a chef?”
There’s something about Gianni that makes me relax, despite our unorthodox meeting. I can sense a food lover in him, and he’s got a warm, unthreatening vibe. “Yes,” I admit, glancing down at the menu. “To both. There’s so many dishes that look incredible. And I do cook. At a restaurant in northern Italy, actually.”
Gianni leans back and whistles. “Well. I’ve got a truecuocoin my midst. Now I have to impress you!”
I wave away the compliment with a shake of my head. “No, you already did when my mom and I came earlier in the week. That’s why I came back, there were so many things I wanted to try.”
He claps his hands and rubs them together. “Then you must let me make you a tasting platter. Please.”
I don’t bother to hold back my smile at his obvious enthusiasm. “That sounds amazing, thank you. I’d be honoured.”
