Chapter 23 — The Trattoria

The place his brother chose was a small trattoria two towns over, the kind with a tin ceiling and a chalkboard of specials and a waiter who recited them from memory with his hands clasped behind his back.

It was nice without being grand.

It was the sort of restaurant where the prices were real but not theatrical, where you could order a good meal and a glass of something without feeling you had signed a mortgage.

I noticed the choice and understood it as a message I was not sure the sender knew he was sending.