Page 83 of The Don’s Omega

He frowns. “There are some customers in there, but whoever seated them didn’t put them by the windows. That’s not smart. With a half-empty restaurant, you should seat people by the windows so you at least look busy. It encourages other people to try the place.”

“You’re right.”

I open the door for Elio and the manager, Marco, is on us before the door finishes closing behind us. He’s a lanky man, around forty, with a well-cut suit and a smile that’s practiced.

“Mr. Foschini,” he says breathily. “What an honor for you to dine with us. Would you prefer a private room?”

“No, the main dining room will do, Marco.” I shake his hand and gesture to Elio. “This is my husband, Elio. I’ve told him how good the food is here. He wanted to come try it for himself.”

“How flattering.” He turns to Elio. “Welcome, Elio. It’s my pleasure to serve you this evening.”

“I’m looking forward to the experience,” Elio says politely.

The inside of the restaurant is even better than the outside, which is saying something. Whoever designed the space understood the view was the star and built everything to serve it. The whole western wall is glass, floor to ceiling, showcasing the harbor and the dropping sun so the water itself becomes art.

The ceiling is open to the rafters, weathered beams of pale reclaimed wood with brass fixtures hung low over the tables. The floors are wide oak planks, the walls a soft museum white hung with a few large abstract canvases in blues and grays. The overall feel of the place is sophisticated, but not stuffy.

The tables are dressed in heavy white linen, real linen, not the poly stuff, and the chairs are low and comfortable in oiled leather the color of caramel. There’s a wall of wine behind glass near the bar, backlit, hundreds of bottles glowing like something in a jewelry case. The restaurant is stunning. Whatever issues Cabrera’s has, it most certainly isn’t décor related.

Marco walks us to a table by the window, pulling out chairs, snapping his fingers at the servers. Elio meets my gaze, looking annoyed, but I’m not sure what’s bothering him. We were greeted and seated quickly, isn’t that a good thing?

A young woman hurries over with menus and water. She starts to say something, but Marco talks over her to tell us about the specials. When she tries again, he sings the praises of the chef and tells us about the awards he’s won in Milan. She sighs, but continues setting the table, obviously used to the way he is.

I peruse the wine list and Elio tries to ask the girl something about the specials. Before she can respond, Marco again answers for her. I decide on a wine and Marco sweeps off toward the kitchen, snapping his fingers at the busboy a table over. Elio’s scowl deepens and I realize he resents the way Marco snaps his fingers at his staff. I suppose it is rather dismissive, but I probably wouldn’t have even noticed he was doing it if Elio hadn’t looked displeased.

Elio watches the staff move around the room, his eyes tracking everything. He especially fixes his gaze on the servers’ paths from the kitchen to the floor.

“Whoever designed this place knew nothing about work flow,” he says, half to himself.

“What do you mean?”

He nods toward the bar. “Watch the bar.”

I glance toward the bar that runs along the inland wall. The bartender behind it is young, moving fast, sweat at his hairline and obvious strain on his face. “I think he’s new. I’ve never seen him before.”

“That’s a relief because if he’s been here a while he’s incompetent.” Elio sighs. “Watch how he hunts for the glasses and the garnish. He doesn’t know where anything is. That’s a problem. If he’s new, he needs better training.”

“I agree. He looks lost.”

“To be honest, everyone here seems new.” He glances around then goes back to watching the bartender. “A place like this especially needs a bartender who’s a fixture. If you have a good bartender, they can be the reason regulars come in.”

“I’ll bet you had a bunch of regulars back at Duffy’s,” I say, feeling a twinge of jealousy.

I’m sure Pete was one of his regulars.

He shrugs, not picking up on my possessiveness. “Yes. I had people who came in just to talk to me. Regulars like to feel like they know the staff by name and that the staff knows them too. People don’t want to feel like they’re just a number on a spreadsheet.”

“No, of course not.” I watch the young bartender fumbling around behind the bar. “Jesus, he’s been working on the same drink for ten minutes.”

“Yep.” Elio grimaces. “I feel bad for the guy. I’m tempted to jump behind the bar and help him.”

I frown. “Don’t you dare. You’re here to have dinner with me.”

He narrows his eyes. “More like I’m here to work, and while we’re here, we’re having dinner.”

“No, the dinner is the real reason we’re here. I wanted to take you out. Your observations are just icing on the cake.”

Elio’s expression says he isn’t buying it, but he doesn’t bother arguing. “Notice how the bartender has to keep stopping serving people at the bar to fetch the drinks for the servers?”