My co-worker drove -- because I don't drive well at night in the sprinkling and the wet -- downtown and we walked the cold, wet streets of the North End. After much walking and deciding, we settled on eating at a chic little place on a side street named something forgettable. The hostess led us to a table for two against a wall. Lots of other tables surrounded us, full of people, talking, laughing, eating, and drinking. For 15 minutes we watched everyone else get helped with no one acknowledging our presence. No water, no hello, no can I take your order? no nothing. So we left. We went next door. It was a cute earthy place, red walls, blue glasses, yellow napkins stuffed flower-like inside, and beautiful handmade masks in shadow boxes along the walls. We were the only two in the place. We ordered right away and I had chicken with spinach, prosciutto, and mozzarella. Delicious. Then my co-worker braved Mike's Pastries and secured us a couple of chocolate chip cannolis.
Standing outside with my back to the pastry shop, I stared at the neighboring building -- a five-story walkup. Each staircase level had a long narrow window in front of it. I watched a young woman wearing a backpack, carrying a white plastic grocery bag, climb each set of stairs to the top floor. She disappeared, reappeared, disappeared, reappeared, steadily rising until reappearing and disappearing a final time. Lights came on. The rain was falling, the street lights reflecting in the black street, and the sound of people haggling, pushing, straining against the pasty counter, waving a stack of dollar bills in their wet fists. It smelled like garlic and sweets and I started as a single, fat drop of water fell from the sky and trickled down my back.
I can still taste the tiramisu. My mouth is sour because of it, but glad sour.
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