5. Elysa
FIVE
Elysa
I love my job!
I loved working at Bistro Marmorata.
The bistro was in a quiet corner of Testaccio, a historic Roman neighborhood known for its bustling markets and trattorias where locals linger over long meals.
Away from the tourist crowds, it felt like the true heart of the city—alive with warmth, history, and a rhythm all its own.
It reminded me a little of Brooklyn.
The bistro was in a modest building with ivy covering the terracotta walls and featured a cute little patio in the front where we could seat about eight people on four tables.
The sign above the door displayed the tagline of the bistro in cursive: Cucina Lucana Autentica .
We had a strong local presence as we specialized in the food of Basilicata, a region in southern Italy that tourists often overlooked.
Our menu didn’t include the usual carbonara or pizza Margherita.
Instead, we served soulful dishes that spoke to the region’s humble roots, such as cavatelli with breadcrumbs and anchovies, cruschi peppers scattered over ricotta, and slow-braised lamb with wild herbs that had people sighing with every bite.
Even our desserts were rustic: a honey-drenched fig tart, chestnut flour cookies, and a ricotta cheesecake that Maura had perfected over the years.
It wasn’t flashy, but it was unforgettable.
The wine list was my pride and joy.
I’d spent time meeting with distributors who carried wine from small, obscure vineyards where winemakers were reviving ancient methods and grapes that most people had never heard of—Tintilia from Molise, Perricone from Sicily, and my favorite, Aglianico, which came from the same volcanic soil that inspired much of our menu.
I’d sourced some of the boldest natural wines made in amphoras, their flavors earthy, alongside softer, more familiar varietals like Nebbiolo and Vermentino.
There was something for everyone.
I knew our wine program drew tourists—after all, we’d made several of Rome’s top wine restaurant lists.
“Elysa!” Paolo, one of my servers, called from across the room as I scanned the bistro during the dinner rush.
The tables were full, the air was buzzing with soft chatter, and good humor, and energy flowed through the bistro.
“The couple at table six would like to talk to you about the wine pairing.”
I nodded and moved through the room, weaving between the tables, smiling, and checking in with guests along the way.
It was instinctive for me now to know who needed a new basket of bread, who was ready for their check, and who was lingering, just soaking in the atmosphere.
I had worked in restaurants in New York; one was an Alain Ducasse Michelin-star restaurant where I learned a lot about what good service meant.
We weren’t an eatery at that level, but I applied my knowledge to create a hospitality culture focused on service without the snobbery.
Dante would never eat at a place like this.
He’d think it was too plebian.
Well, fuck him!
Well, Lucia probably already was, I thought bitterly.
I hated that he was still on my mind so much—but as Maura said, I wouldn’t just stop loving him because I left him, and she had the receipts on heartbreak.
“ That shit takes time. Took me two years to get over Roberto. The asshole.”
I grinned at the couple at table six.
They were Americans in their early fifties who wanted to have an authentic travel experience and sought out places off the beaten path—in short, my kind of people.
“So, we’re thinking of having the lamb…the one with the potatoes.” The man glanced at his wife for confirmation.
I smiled warmly.
“Ah, the agnello alla lucana ! The lamb is slow-cooked with garlic, rosemary, and white wine—very traditional in Basilicata. The potatoes are roasted with olive oil and a touch of peperone crusco , which is kind of a signature of the region. You’ve made an excellent choice.”
The woman inclined her head.
“ Peperone crusco ?”
“It’s a specialty of Basilicata,” I explained.
“They’re dried red peppers, fried for just a few seconds at high heat to make them perfectly crispy. They add a smoky-sweet crunch to the dish.”
The couple exchanged pleased looks.
“And for wine?” the man asked, flipping through the list.
I tilted my head toward the wine list.
“I’d recommend this”—I put a finger next to the name of a wine—“an Aglianico del Vulture . It’s from the volcanic soils of Basilicata, made with the Aglianico grape. It’s bold, with notes of dark fruit, smoke, and just enough tannins to stand up to the richness of the lamb and the peppers.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose.
“We’ve never heard of that grape.”
I grinned.
“Aglianico is one of our hidden gems—deep, complex, and a little underappreciated outside of the region. This one comes from a small producer. They farm organically and take great care of their vines. It’s as authentic as it gets.”
“Sold!” The man closed the wine list.
“We’re in your hands.”
“You won’t regret it,” I promised before heading off to place their order and pick up their bottle from the wine fridge .
When I went to check in with the couple some time later, the woman gave me a warm smile as I approached, gesturing to her glass of wine.
“This is incredible,” she exclaimed.
“We’ve never tasted anything like it.”
“I’m so glad you like it.”
“Since we have finished this bottle, can you suggest something you have by the glass?” the man asked.
“White, if possible,” the woman added.
Her husband frowned.
“We tried a red, which you like, and now we’re going to try a white, which I like,” she stated.
I chuckled and set my hand lightly on the edge of the table.
“How about a Malvasia Bianca from Puglia? I know the winemaker. She was in Rome just a few months ago and did a tasting. She uses amphoras to ferment the wine, which keeps it super fresh while letting the natural flavors of the grapes shine through. It’s unfiltered, so you get all these beautiful, unexpected notes—like wildflowers and honey. It’s one of my favorites.”
The couple next to their table raved about the wine.
The man, a German, raised his glass and examined it with the reverence usually reserved for cathedrals.
“It’s incredible. Ve bought a bottle to take back to de hotel,” he confided in a strong Bavarian accent.
“Ve even got the name of the vineyard as we’re driving south so we can do a tasting there,” the man’s wife shared.
The American couple was also traveling around Italy and lit up at the suggestion.
We chatted for a few minutes about their trip, and I recommended vineyards and restaurants they could go to.
I walked away knowing they’d leave with a story to tell and that they’d remember us.
Back behind the bar, I checked in with Paolo and my other server, Sofia, to make sure they weren’t drowning.
Then, I peeked into the kitchen, where Maura was plating our signature pasta alla Mollica .
She glanced up, her hair pulled back into its usual bun, and raised an eyebrow at me.
“All good?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Table three wants another bottle of the Trebbiano d'Abruzzo DOC Valentini. Your crapiata is getting raves tonight.”
The Trebbiano d'Abruzzo DOC Valentini was one of our most expensive wines, selling for two hundred euros a bottle, but it was absolutely worth it.
She grinned. “Of course it is.
And you were right about it being the perfect pairing for the crapiata because it has just enough structure and elegance to make it da bomb.
”
I smirked.
“You just like the profit margin on the d’Abruzzo.”
She winked.
“That too.”
An unassuming dish, the crapiata was an ancient stew dating back to Roman civilization, made with lentils, fava beans, wheat berries, and chickpeas.
Maura’s crapiata was a little different from the traditional recipe as she liked to add a touch of pancetta and some slow-cooked sausage, giving it a richer, meatier twist, almost like an Italian take on cassoulet.
It was comfort food at its finest.
Maura and I made an excellent team.
She worked like a demon, and her food was magic.
We had a rhythm that didn’t need words most of the time.
We trusted each other completely.
A part of me wanted to stay in Italy because of her and the bistro after the divorce.
We’d recently talked about converting our informal partnership into a formal one, but it didn’t sit well with me.
Maura’s father had invested actual money into the business, and all I had was sweat equity.
I had, for a small moment, considered asking Dante for a loan so I could become a real partner, but that hope died before it even started.
“I’m so sorry, but I have to get to work.” I refused Lucia’s lunch invitation when I went to give Dante his phone, which he’d forgotten at the flat.
“You work?” Her eyebrows were raised.
Dante had opened his office door, telling me to get the hell out.
“She’s just a waitress at her friend’s bistro.”
With that, he’d said several things.
First, I was merely pretending to have a job; second, it was a lowly job (being a server was not lowly, the son of a bitch); and lastly, I got the job because the bistro was my friend’s.
As I walked out, I heard Lucia say in Italian, “I can’t understand why your wife would work, Dante.”
“She’s just passing the time. I don’t think she’s qualified for much else,” I heard Dante reply in the same language as he shut the door.
I looked at his assistant, Giulia, who had obviously heard Dante because she was shaking her head, her eyes flashing with anger on my behalf.
“Eh, he’s an arrogant ass, sometimes. Always thinking he knows everything, mamma mia ,” she remarked in English.
I shrugged.
Giulia, in her mid-forties, had no problem speaking her mind—a trait that surprised me, considering she worked for Dante, who was arrogant as hell.
Yet, somehow, he didn’t seem to mind.
“You should tell him what you do, Elysa,” she grumbled.
Giulia, unlike my husband, had come to the bistro with her husband and had loved the food, and she’d told me she was so impressed with how I was managing the front of the house and the wine program.
“Why bother?”
“So, he’ll stop being ? —”
“An arrogant ass?” I suggested.
We both laughed.
How many times had I laughed when Dante had insulted me, even with my heart heavy?
Way too many times.
I was relieved when table four waved for me.
I had to stop thinking about Dante.
It was done.
It was over.
Except for that stupid Carrera gala, I groaned inwardly as I suggested the perfect wine by the glass for the guests who were ordering the sarde con oregano e pane , a fish dish made with a combination of sardines, breadcrumbs, pecorino, and herbs.
When the rush began to slow, I moved to the bar, scanning the dining room as I sipped a glass of sparkling water.
There was a deep satisfaction in watching it all—the plates coming out of the kitchen perfectly timed, the sound of happy diners, the quiet pride on my staff’s faces as they moved through their routines.
I didn’t need to think about Dante here .
I didn’t need to feel the ache in my chest when I remembered how he sounded or the way he looked at me like I was disposable.
At Bistro Marmorata, I was more than capable.
I was running a business that people loved, building something extraordinary with Maura and my team.
Dante could think whatever he wanted, but I was Elysa Costa, and I was going to live my best life—just as soon as I got my divorce and never had to see him again.