He called at ten the next morning.
I was at the West Village location going over the July menu with Maya — we had moved past the rhubarb vindication into new territory, a stone fruit situation that I was genuinely excited about and that Maya was approaching with the focused precision of someone who understood that stone fruit in July was either extraordinary or a disaster and there was no middle ground.
His name on my screen.
I excused myself and went to the back room.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey." His voice was the morning-after version — not rough exactly, just stripped down, the specific quality of a voice that had been through something and was still processing. "How are you?"
"I'm fine. How are you?"
"Headache," he said. "Deserved."
"Drink more water."
"I've had approximately two lit
