Petrichor. I breathed in the sweet, earthy aroma of the impending rainstorm and held it in my lungs until they felt as if they would explode into a million iridescent sparks. I watched as the crowd, once convened to watch a band performing in the park, scurried away to find shelter nearby as the rain began to fall in crystallized droplets onto the hot pavement below. Children, once holding the hands of their parents, broke free from their invisible leashes to jump into the puddles that were beginning to form. The sun, hidden by darkening clouds, cast a thin shimmer of magenta, blue, and gold onto the wet ground as the car cautiously drove down the streets and found a canopy of tree branches to park underneath. The rain had begun to quicken its pace, and droplets now raced against each other on the windshield. The gravel crunched beneath my feet as I awkwardly made my way in high-heeled shoes towards the entrance. I scoffed at how my feet, not akin to wearing shoes at all, were timidly making minuscule strides for fear of falling.

            I stood at the pristine glass doorway and entered. Immediately, the world outside fell away as I was transported into the aromas of an Italian kitchen, and my ears pricked at the soft melodies of Adele singing. We were led past tables of quietly chatting diners, their silverware chinking on plates and glasses raised in toasts. I had never been here before, but my first impression was that of genuine delight. I slid into the smooth leather of the booth and took notice of the small bread plate, with its blue swirls and flower motif. The rose-colored water glass stood gleaming against the backdrop of the now setting sun behind it, its rim glistening as the day began its slow goodbye. The utensils gleamed silver, the linen napkins sat politely perched by the white plates trimmed in matching blue florals, ready to devour any morsel of food that happened to miss its mark.

            We were warmly greeted by our server, a cheerful man decked in a striped black and white shirt and carefully ironed black pants, and handed wooden menu boards. Antipasti, Primo, Secondo, Contorno. At this moment, I felt it was impossible to decide on what I would be partaking of for the evening. Each menu item seemed delicious and full of extraordinary possibilities.  Clear, cool liquid flowed into the rose-colored glass as I contemplated ordering everything off the menu. A burrata board to start, lobster gnocchi to follow. A glass of Cleto Chiarli Lambrusco. Crimson wine flowed into awaiting glasses and was slowly savored, allowing the soft profile of the Grasparossa grapes to wind their way across my palate. I took inquisitive note of the food that had begun making its way to nearby tables, dishes of highly stacked rectangular lasagna with melted Parmesan, and casarecce Bolognese, rich and rustic. Just as suddenly, the burrata board was set in front of us, and I hungrily anticipated the first bite.

            The burrata cheese sat off to the side, a swirl of balsamic glaze adorning its crown. Fresh, shaved Parmesan, cured Italian meats, peach accoutrement, green and black olives tossed in olive oil and Italian seasonings, fluffy focaccia bread served with whipped ricotta. My taste buds alight with joy. I savored each briny bite, each explosive measure of salty and rich. The burrata, however, I saved for last. A ball of glossy white exterior gave way to a creamy center that opened upon the lightest of knife work. A cool, mellow delicacy with curds that melted like butter. I sliced the bread, still warm from the oven, and spread the cheese upon its surface. A dollop of sweet, ripened peach jam was carefully placed atop the ivory creaminess.  Immediately, my tongue recognized savory and sweet. The elements began dancing in a languid stupor on my tongue. Every singular bite not only filled my stomach, but my heart.

            Satiated by the antipasti, I eagerly awaited the lobster gnocchi. A split lobster tail and lemon crumb adorned the rectangular serving dish, its contents of pillowy, gnocchi pasta hidden just underneath in a bath of corn and zucchini cream and bisque. The first bite explodes against the canvas of my tongue. The flavors were rustic, simple, yet also complex. Perfectly seasoned. Comforting. As the rain steadily fell, and the last moments of the day slid deftly behind the treescape, I closed my eyes. Shutting out the sense of sight, I focused on the rich, buttery smell of the lobster, the sweetness of the bisque and cream. The delicate crunch of the lemon crumb. The tender gnocchi seemed to melt as soon as it touched my tongue. I have had wonderful, unforgettable meals before, but this experience was among the very top.

            After partaking of another bite of food, I let my green eyes dance around the room. The lighting was industrial in fashion, which was offset by the smooth, crisp white linen tablecloths. Cool hues of blue and silver dotted against walls of eggshell white and large black and white colored family photographs of Laura and, from what I gathered, her husband were lovingly placed along the seating area. The kitchen, with its gleaming steel and chefs in clear view, weaving their magic in the food they create. The dessert display with huge goblets filled with layered tiramisu, cannoli richly filled with ricotta and adorned with chocolate chips on each end, the towering meringue volcano that is the semi freddo, filled with chocolate ganache and Biscoff cookies, and lit with fire in front of your mesmerized eyes by the wait staff. Each bite is as delicate and delicious as the one before.

            Diners began on their way home, but I took my time getting acquainted with Laura, the grandmother whose recipes are the heart of her namesake restaurant, which was founded by her grandson, Nico. Although I have a fierce love for my own family, in those moments, I wished that I, too, were fortunate enough to have had an Italian grandmother who spent her days creating this exquisite yet comforting Italian food. This visit to the memory of Laura and her recipes will certainly not be the last. I look forward to that next bite even in my dreams.

Grazie, Laura. Grazie.