After Harry’s solitary dinner at Leonardo’s, he returned to his bungalow with a tummy bulging even more than usual, stuffed full of pasta. He’d polished off most of a bottle of chianti by himself, and he’d made sure to follow Aldo’s advice to tell the waiter, “Not too much sauce!” which was the Italian’s main complaint about working-class restaurants in the States that smothered the plate with so much red gravy you couldn’t even tell the shape of the pasta underneath. Considering his starchy lunch at Esther’s, Harry had resolved to eat only salad for the next two days, but he knew in the morning he’d crave a generous stack of pancakes, slathered with butter, drenched in real maple syrup. If he could still summon some willpower, maybe he’d skip the bacon.
He hoped a preoccupation with his
