Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Giovanni
Inside, the bell rings. Francesca sees me enter and doesn’t make a show of it. She comes around the podium with the book in hand like I’m any two-top with a reservation.
“Evening,” she says. “We’ve got your corner ready.”
“Grazie,” I say. “Keep it quiet.”
“Of course.” She takes a quick look at the room. “Water?”
“Sparkling. No lemon.”
She leads me to the corner table by the window. Good sight lines. Back to the wall. I take the chair that faces the room, habit. The table is set tight and clean. Napkin folded right, not a fan, not a rose. Plain. Forks where they belong. Knife sharp enough for meat, not a saw.
She sets down a short tumbler of sparkling water, no ice, a wine glass, and a folded list. I don’t touch the list.
“Chef will send pairings,” she says, reading my mind.
“Let her,” I say.
She nods and leaves me alone.
I don’t look toward the swing door. I’m not here to watch a line. I’m here to eat. If she knows what she’s doing, the plates will say it.
Bread arrives first. Not the big basket they give families, not breadsticks in a glass.
Two slices of warm country loaf, crust thin, crumb open.
A small saucer of oil, I recognize. Sabina’s supplier.
Peppery, not grass. Good start. I tear a piece off, test. Warm, not hot. Fresh, not reheated. Salt right.
Francesca brings a bottle of white already opened, label turned away. “Verdicchio,” she says. “Cool, not cold.”
She pours a taste. I swirl enough to wake it up and take a sip. Clean, almond at the end. I nod. She pours.
Bianca comes out of the kitchen like she’s been walking this floor all her life. Black coat. Hair up, a few pieces not listening. No lipstick. No earrings. She stops a step short of the table and keeps her hands behind her back.
“Good evening, Mr. Conti,” she says.
“Giovanni,” I correct.
Her mouth almost moves. “Giovanni.”
“Bianca.”
We don’t waste time on small talk. She tips her chin at the glass. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
She gives one short nod and looks at the table like she’s checking that I have what I need. Water, wine, knife, fork. She’s already turning away when I say, “You doing this alone?”
“I have a line,” she says. “But yes. It’s mine.”
I hold her eyes. She doesn’t blink. She goes back through the door without trying to sell me anything.
The room does what restaurants do. Forks clattering. Low talk. Someone at the bar laughs too loudly, and Tomas drops a hand on his shoulder on the way by and the laugh dies off.
First plate is delivered without fuss. Francesca sets it down, announces nothing, and leaves.
It’s a single scallop, dry-seared, no color games. Under it, a thin slice of grilled lemon. Around it, a small tangle of shaved fennel and celery leaves with oil and a hit of salt. There’s a small spoon of something I don’t place until I taste it—anchovy butter, barely there.
I cut into the scallop. It’s warm in the center, not raw. I try it alone first. Sweet and simple. I drag the second bite through the butter and pair it with a piece of the lemon, then a strand of fennel. It all goes perfectly together.
The Verdicchio works. Not showy. Cleans the butter off the tongue. I finish the plate. Bread gets the last of the lemon and the smear of butter. I don’t sop. I collect. Clean plate back on the table.
Bianca comes out. Doesn’t ask if I liked it. She looks at the empty plate, then at me.
“Good,” I say.
“Good,” she echoes like a note in a ledger, then, “Pasta next.”
“Of course,” I say.
She leaves again. The room gets a little louder as we move into prime dinnertime. A family at the window takes a picture. They don’t angle it in my direction. Good.
Second pour. Not white. Chianti Classico, not the cheap stuff, not the trophy either. Francesca pours short. I let it sit while the pasta comes up.
It’s cavatelli. Hand-rolled, not machine. Dressed with broccoli rabe, garlic, a few slices of Calabrian chili, a dusting of pecorino, toasted crumbs. I can smell the greens from here. Bitter, right.
I take a bite. The chew on the cavatelli is right.
Not gummy, not raw. She cooked the rabe enough to tame it, not enough to kill it.
Oil coats but doesn’t drown. Heat arrives on the tail end but doesn’t burn.
I take another bite with the wine. Complimentary.
Neither is fighting for dominance. I eat slower on purpose, wanting to savor the last bite as much as the first.
Bianca comes out again. Still no “how is everything?” She looks at the bowl. I didn’t leave even one piece of pasta.
“Salt is a touch too much on the pecorino,” I say. “Not the dish. The cheese.”
She tips her head once. “Tomorrow it’ll be a different wheel.”
“Good,” I say.
Francesca clears, fills water, leaves it.
For the next course, she pours a red deeper than the Chianti. Barolo would be predictable. This is Etna Rosso. I can taste the volcano before I lift the glass. She somehow knew that was my thing.
Bianca comes with the plate herself this time.
She sets it down. No flourish. It’s swordfish.
Most people drown swordfish with sauce to hide the dryness.
Not here. It’s a thinner cut, cooked fast, edge crisp, center moist. Under it is a bed of chickpeas dressed with lemon and a little rosemary, and around it a tapenade dotted small so you don’t get a mouthful of one thing.
A few slivers of grilled pepper trail the edge.
It looks like something Sabina would respect.
I cut a small bite of the fish and go straight to it. She nailed the cook. The edge cracks. The inside is still real food texture, not chalk. I get a chickpea with the next bite and a dot of tapenade. The olive doesn’t run the show as it so often does.
“Who did the fish?” I ask when she returns.
“I did,” she says. “That was the deal, right?”
“Good answer,” I say.
She doesn’t smile. Her eyes flick to the glass. “You like the Etna?”
“I do,” I say.
She nods once and leaves again.
I take another bite and another sip and think about how easy it would be to let my head go somewhere else—her hands, the line of her throat when she tipped her head, the soft swell beneath her dark chef’s jacket.
I don’t. I eat. I’m here to decide if I want this woman in my kitchen every day. And also, if I can manage it if I do.
Next is meat. It should be. Francesca puts down a new knife without asking. She swaps my glass. This one’s Piedmont. Barbera. Good choice if the next course is not too heavy.
The plate comes. It’s veal saltimbocca, but not the flattened, floured, drowned-in-wine version you see on menus. This is cut thicker, pounded just enough, seared hard, sage leaves tucked cleanly, prosciutto crisped, not wet.
The sauce is a reduced pan sauce with a touch of Marsala, not sweet, mounted right. On the side is a small pile of sautéed escarole with garlic and a few pine nuts.
I cut into the veal and check for pink. There’s a hint.
She didn’t overdo it. The salt of the prosciutto is perfect.
I put a bite of the greens with the next fork, then the wine.
The Barbera has enough acid to handle the fat.
I know what she’s doing. She’s not trying to impress with foam or flowers or towers.
She’s giving me the bones of a kitchen. If this is the food she sends when she’s on the pass and also cooking, I can work with that.
She doesn’t come right away this time. She lets me finish half before she steps out. She watches the plate and then me.
“The cook on the veal,” I start.
“If it’s too rare for you, I’ll take it all the way next time,” she says.
“Not too rare,” I say and take a sip of my wine. “It seems like you knew what you were doing.”
She holds my eyes for a long beat longer. “I do know what I’m doing.”
“Sit,” I say.
She looks at the room, at the pass, back at me.
“Two minutes,” I add. “You can see the door.”
She slips into the chair across from me like she’s done it a thousand times, but I can see in her shoulders that she hasn’t.
She keeps her back half off the chair, ready to move.
She rests her hands on the table, left over right, nails clean, no polish.
A ring on her right hand I recognize. Old family gold. Not wedding.
“I don’t do this,” she says. “Sitting in the room while my food’s out.”
“You do tonight,” I say. “I asked.”
“You did,” she says.
“Why these plates?” I ask. “You could’ve gone fishing for compliments. Tricks. You didn’t.”
“Fancy plates don’t make food taste better,” she says, simply.
“Most people still try,” I say.
“I’m not most people.” She tips her chin toward the door. “I should—”
“Eat a bite, then go.” I hold the fork out.
She shakes her head. “I don’t eat when I cook.”
“Bad habit,” I say.
“It works,” she says, standing. “One more, then dessert.”
“Good,” I say.
She leaves. Francesca slides a small glass in front of me. Not wine. A splash of amaro with a cube. “Palate check,” she says.
I take a small sip. It’s not sweet. It scrapes the last of the veal off. Smart.
The next plate must be the surprise. It’s a bowl.
Shallow. In it, a tangle of puntarelle—that bitter Roman chicory you don’t see much here—dressed with anchovy and lemon, shaved ice-cold.
On top, a just-poached egg, soft as a pillow.
On the side, a thin slice of toasted bread with nothing on it.
The pairing is a small pour of Etna Bianco, not the Rosso from before. North and south of the same mountain.
I crack the egg and let the yolk run through the puntarelle.
The heat of the egg takes the chill off the greens.
The anchovy is strong, then fades into the fat of the yolk.
It’s a small dish. A reset. Not on the printed menu here, I’d bet.
It’s something she wanted to do because she wanted to see if I get it.
I get it.
She comes out and doesn’t hover. “Too bitter for you?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “You got the puntarelle.”
“I know people,” she says, plain.
“I know you do,” I say.
Her mouth does that not-quite-smile, and she’s gone again.
The room keeps moving. I catch two guys at the bar looking my way, then looking away. They know me. They don’t bother me. I can feel the kitchen working on time by the rhythm of the door. She’s pacing it right. No dragging. No dump. The staff isn’t staring at me through the pass. Good.
Dessert arrives with no build-up. A small square of olive oil cake, tight crumb, not dry.
A spoon of macerated strawberries on the side, not sweet syrup, real fruit.
A quenelle of mascarpone with a thread of honey and a few crushed pistachios.
She puts down a tiny glass of Vin Santo, just enough to taste.
There’s also a short espresso set down by Francesca without a word. She knows me already.
I cut into the cake. It holds and doesn’t crumble. The oil is just the right amount. The strawberries taste like strawberries. The mascarpone is cool and loose, not stiff. I take a bite with everything and then a sip of Vin Santo. It could have gone sweet. She didn’t.
She comes out, no jacket now. Just the black tee. Apron off. She stops at the edge of the table.
“Sweet enough?” she asks.
“Barely,” I say. “Correct.”
“Good,” she says.
“Sit,” I say again.
She does, quicker this time. The room is past the rush. They’re not empty, but the noise is down.
“You like feeding people,” I say.
“I do,” she says. No show. “I like it when it shuts them up.”
I laugh, real this time. “You’ll fit in fine at my place.”
She looks at the espresso. “You want sugar?”
“No.”
She watches me take a sip.
“Taste,” I say again and nod at the cake.
“I don’t eat when I cook,” she repeats.
“You’re not cooking anymore,” I say simply.
I pick up the fork, take a small scoop of everything—cake, berry, mascarpone—and hold it out across the table.
She goes still. Not offended. Measuring. Her eyes flick to the room, then to the fork, then back to me. She leans in. Mouth parts. She takes the bite, her lips just grazing the tines. Heat runs a line down my spine like someone flipped a switch.
She chews once, twice, thoughtfully. A crumb catches at the corner of her mouth. I have the stupid urge to wipe it with my thumb. I don’t. She beats me to it, swipes with the pad of her finger, and sets her hand flat on the table again like nothing happened.
“Well?” I ask. My voice sounds the same. It doesn’t feel the same.
“It’s good,” she says. “Could go a hair more on the pistachio. Not much.”
We sit there for a second. I finish the espresso. She sits still. She doesn’t fidget with silverware. She just looks at me, and I know she’s waiting for a verdict, an answer.
Did she pass the audition or not?
I fold the napkin, set it beside the plate. It’s the only move that won’t say too much.
“You’ll hear from me,” I say, standing.
Your eyebrows lift a fraction in disbelief. “I’ll hear from you?”
“Yes.” I slide the chair in with my knee. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I thought you said you don’t play games,” she says.
“I meant it,” I say. “This isn’t a game.”
“Feels like one.”
“Thank you for the meal, Bianca,” I say.
I tap the edge of the plate once and step away.
Francesca catches my eye from the host stand. I give her nothing. Coat on. Door. Bell rings. Night air clears the room from my lungs.
I don’t look back through the glass. If I do, I’ll stay. Instead, I cross to the car, hands loose, jaw tight.
She can cook. She can handle me. That’s a problem.
I start the engine but don’t drive off.
I know what my brothers will say. They’ll tell me I’m doing the one thing I said I wouldn’t do: mixing business and… whatever this is. They wouldn’t be wrong.
I’m careful. I also know when something works. Tonight worked.
I sigh and pull out of the space.
Too late to back out now.