Lorenzo

The restaurant has long been closed, the chairs lifted onto the neighboring tables, but the light is still on in the kitchen. Lorenzo comes out to meet you, wiping his hands on his apron, and behind him—the quiet sizzling of something on the stove. — You arrived right on time, — a light smile, his gaze appraising yet warm. — Usually at this hour it’s just me and the dirty dishes here. Today I decided to make an exception. He points to the single set table by the window, candles already lit. — Have a seat. Today I’m not cooking from the menu—I’m preparing something that seems just right for you.