He zipped his lips, but turned to Nick and side-mouthed, “Just you wait.” The hostess offered them a tray with four reddish-brown golf ball–sized orbs on it, each sitting in its own delicate cup. She instructed them to put the entire ball into their mouths and be prepared for a surprise. They clinked the cups together and did as told. Sewanee felt the hard shea butter exterior instantly collapse and a gush of sweet, tart, perfectly balanced liqueur burst to life, coating her tongue. She was stupefied. The splash of flavor had cleared her mind and awakened all her senses at once, like jumping into a cold lake.
“What’d I tell you, huh? Well, I didn’t tell you, but when have you ever had that happen in your mouth?” Stu held up a hand. “Don’t answer that.” Nick and Sewanee laughed as Marilyn slapped his arm.
The hostess led them through the bar, out a door, and into the garden behind the restaurant. As they strolled the meandering path, she pointed to specific produce they would be consuming that night. Every so often, there was a tree stump and on it was a little taste of something. A mushroom puff pastry. A caramelized turnip in a single leaf of arugula. An aperitif glass containing an anise liqueur with a cherry at the bottom.
By the time the hostess took them into the restaurant and relieved them of their coats, Sewanee’s senses were strung tighter than a bowstring. There was the faint smell of woodsmoke and garlic, but also an undernote of something floral. Everything was intentional.
They were handed off to someone else and swept to a table by the windows. The tabletop was glass. The ceiling, thirty feet above, was mirrored. The windows offered a view of the garden they’d just toured. Beyond the sparse landscaping lights, the Venetian night was a black void.
Stu directed Sewanee and Nick to sit on the side that allowed them a view of the entire restaurant, the entire show. Marilyn and Stu sat across from them and Stu could not stop smiling, though it did vary; from gentle to impish to full-on clown.
Three more people appeared, one bringing a glass bottle of water, a waiter who confirmed they were doing the tasting menu, and a sommelier who confirmed they were doing pairings with the tasting menu. Stu didn’t let anyone answer before saying, “Absolute-mente!”
“Fantastico.” The sommelier smiled politely. He pulled a bottle from behind his back and said it was off the menu, but he had it open and wanted them to try it. He poured a splash into each of their glasses and departed. They raised them, clinked, and took a sip.
“What do you think?” Stu solicited, before they’d set down their glasses.
“Yummy,” Marilyn enthused.
“Wow,” Sewanee and Nick said and then, under his breath, Nick murmured, “It’s tight, it needs to open,” and Sewanee’s cheeks had never heated faster and Stu said, “Sorry, what?” and Nick answered, “Just right, doesn’t need to open.”
“Oh! Do you enjoy wine, Nick?”
“I’ve been known to diddle. Sorry, dabble. Diddle’s the Irish.”
Sewanee bit her lip.
Stu snapped his fingers. “I thought that accent was Irish!” Which prompted Sewanee to playfully explain how it was much more pronounced when he hit on women in bars and no true Dubliner had that accent anyway. Which prompted Nick to oh-so-innocently ask Sewanee which part of Texas she was from again, and–short of kicking each other under the table–they moved on.
Nick quickly lifted his glass. “Can’t thank you enough for letting me join in tonight.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Nick! And so happy you’re here, Swanners! What a night. Special night.”
Stu’s spirited embrace had Sewanee relaxing further and she could feel the same thing happening to Nick. An uncomplicated, pleasure-seeking father figure seemed a foreign, but welcome, concept to them both. Their fight faded into the recesses of their better selves and Sewanee had the urge to take his hand under the table. But she didn’t.
A flurry of servers presented the first artwork of a course and the sommelier poured a white. Nick was about to dig in, but Stu clucked his tongue. “Whoa there, cowboy, everything comes with an explanation.” The head waiter launched into a detailed description of what sat before them. This was immediately followed by the sommelier telling them why he chose this specific wine to “not only complement the dish, but to create a relationship with it.” Sewanee thought, if this were Los Angeles, it would be pretentious, artificial, chi-chi. But here, in Venice, on an island, it was earned.
They took a sumptuous bite and chased it with a healthy sip of wine. All four sat in a moment of silence. The kind of reverence reserved for prayer, as though they had never eaten before this moment.