Enzo
You have a strange obsession with that restaurant.
Eating there is like an old amico’s embrace.
Enzo
I’ll be there in thirty.
Sully
Gotta sit this one out, fellas. The heiress and I have a sexting date tonight.
Enzo
So you have a date with your hand, then?
Sully
Yep.
That was more than I ever hoped to know.
Enzo
See you soon, Sly.
Di Mercutio is nestled on the corner of 99th and 3rd, next to a Jiu Jitzu gym and a Thai restaurant—walking distance from my new building.
In the few weeks since I’ve been back, I’ve eaten here at least twice a week. The staff is beginning to know me well. So well, in fact, they secure me the same table next to a window, so when I dine alone, I can people-watch. It’s also open late, which I appreciate on nights like these.
The cuisine is home-style Italian with an upscale aesthetic, which really just means they use white linens and overcharge for their wine. But the food is delizioso, and the waitstaff is friendly, so I frequent the establishment.
As I walk in tonight, a hostess by the name of Hattie greets me with a warm smile. The scent of garlic and rich sauces permeates the air, reminding me howhungry I am.
“Welcome back, Mr. Lucchetti. Your table is waiting. Will anyone be joining you tonight?”
“Sì, grazie. My cousin is on his way.”
“Very well. Let me show you to your table.”
She leads me through the restaurant, which is still very busy for such a late hour. The patrons range from families to couples, to small friend groups, and though everyone chats amongst themselves, the restaurant maintains a relaxed and semi-quiet atmosphere.
With my menu in hand, I thank the hostess and she retreats to her podium while I wait for the server. Nearly fifteen minutes later, after I have ordered myself a glass of merlot and my spaghetti and meatballs, Enzo slips into the seat across from me.
Picking up his menu, he skims it and mutters his greeting. “Sorry I’m late.”
“On the contrary,” I say as the waiter approaches again to take Enzo’s drink order. “You told me thirty minutes, and you are practically right on the dot.”
“Eggplant bolognese and sparkling water, please,” Enzo tells the waiter before focusing his attention on me. “How's the new apartment treating you?”
“It’s too large and too empty,” I reply blandly, picking up my glass and swirling my merlot that the waiter places in front of me.
“I offered you my extra room.”
“Sì, but you know I prefer to live alone.”
“I know. I’m just saying.”
