Page 133 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“You seem very calm,” she said.

“Inside, I’m screaming.” He looked at the others: George, Sandy, Harold, and Moira. Bianca had texted to see if she could up the number in the reservation, and he’d welcomed it. “Please, please, welcome. Alfonso will take you to your table.”

Alfonso, dressed impeccably, opened a door, and a burst of jazz and conversation came rushing in from the dining room. As the others entered, Bianca hung behind.

“You do look even keeled,” Bianca said to him. “That’s how you know you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing.”

“Maybe wait till after you try the food.” He clasped his hands together. “I must get back to the kitchen, but please know how happy I am that you’re here.”

“Si, si,” she replied. “Felice di essere qui.” We’re happy to be here.

Perhaps she was hoping for more. Maybe something like, “I missed you.”

He clearly had his focus elsewhere, so she found his eyes and said, “Buona fortuna.”

“Grazie.” Joy filled his face, then he was gone.

Alfonso appeared again and led her in.

It was 9:00 p.m., rather early for Italians, but most of the tables were occupied. Along the back wall, close to the huge painting of the woman with the flock of birds forming a V between her thighs, a sommelier scaled a ladder in the glass wine cellar to retrieve a bottle. Each marble-topped table hosted a small abstract sculpture and a table lamp and was neatly set with modern and elegant stemware and silverware.

George handed Bianca a menu. “Can you believe it? Nine choices of water. Look at that last one.”

She scanned the menu. Each water had a place of origin, along with a description and price. The last was a steep fifty euros, melted glacier water from the Arctic Circle. “I’m up for it.”

“Dear God, no,” George said. “I’m fine with tap.”

A server appeared in a white shirt and black vest, carrying a bottle of wine. “Good evening, I’m assuming English is preferred.” A few nods. “Very well. Corrado would like you to start off with a Col Fondo from Bele Casel, which is an older-style Prosecco from the Asolo DOCG.” He smoothly and quietly opened the bottle and poured the cloudy wine into each glass. “Unlike normal Proseccos, this wine experiences secondary fermentation in the bottle. Col Fondo means ‘with the bottom,’ meaning including the sediment or lees. You’ll find the result slightly funky, and even sour, but ultimately, transporting.”

Once the server vanished, Bianca held up her glass to the others. “I’m so glad to have everyone join tonight, for what is my father’s last in the city. I’m going to miss you, Dad. Cin, cin.”

“Hold up,” Harold said thirty minutes and several dishes and glasses of wine later. “You got those scars fighting a squirrel?”

“Don’t make him feel like a hero,” Bianca said, laughing. Her nerves had fallen away after that first glass of Prosecco, and she’d been laughing ever since. What an exquisite evening, and it was even more marvelous that she’d started writing a new book today and that her dad was doing better than she’d ever seen him. What a perfect way to send him off.

Her mom wouldn’t believe it.

George rolled back down his sleeve. “Mr. Nutz is no squirrel. If I know him, he’s in my jacuzzi bath right now, sipping on a martini in my finest crystal.”

A burst of laughter.

“And the squirrel feeder idea,” Harold said, “it’s brilliant. I’d fund that if I had any money, but I don’t.” The Prosecco and the other four or five glasses of wine had clearly gotten to Harold, but he wasn’t alone. They’d all not eaten all day, so they were easy victims to alcohol.

In an instant, five servers appeared with the next dish. Before each person, they set down a series of small clay cylinders of various heights, each topped with a different delicacy from the sea.

The lead server pointed to each of Bianca’s selections with his pinkie, saying, “This is a Hokkaido scallop laid back in its shell, topped with a blue shrimp caviar from Quebec. Then we have a tentacle tip of Italian octopus grilled over charcoal from our local forests and finished with a brush of black garlic–infused olive oil. And here, we have a sea urchin steamed custard, made with dashi and cream, drizzled with a warm saffron licorice butter. Lastly, a single shucked Ostriche di San Teodoro from Sardinia, the finest oyster in Italy, presented inside a half shell resting on crushed ice, studded with edible flowers. It’s topped with a black pearl sphere, which is a frozen orb of squid ink and sake that will melt into the brine after you pierce it with your teeth.” He gave a chef’s kiss.

There was barely a blink between the diners.

Another server handed him an opened bottle of wine. “And to pair, we’ve included from Emilia-Romagna an Albana, which is a white wine dressed in a red body, quite muscular and taut, very nice with the seafood. Please enjoy.”

After pouring each a half glass, the server and his colleagues disappeared, leaving Bianca and the others to gawk at Corrado’s mastery.

“Out of this world,” Sandy said, lifting her fork.

“No can do on the octopus,” Moira said, clearly buzzed. “They’re smarter than me. I can’t eat the tip of a tentacle. Not after I read Remarkably Bright Creatures.”

“I’m the same,” Harold agreed. “Did anyone else see My Octopus Teacher? No way.”