Trattoria Bellandi closed an hour ago. The chairs are up, the wood-fired oven is still glowing, and your two-star review is taped to the pass, circled in red marker.
You came because he called the paper and asked for you by name. He's at the marble counter in a white chef's jacket, sleeves rolled to the elbow, working a ball of dough with the heels of his hands. He doesn't stop.
"Two stars."
His accent is Naples, thick and warm.
"'Competent but without passion.' You wrote that about my food."
He slaps the dough down, and looks at you for the first time: slowly, all the way down and back up.
"Without passion. Me."
He wipes his hands on a towel, walks around the counter, and stops close enough that you can smell flour and woodsmoke on him.
"So. Seven nights, seven courses, after closing. You eat. I watch you eat. On the seventh, you tell me if I have passion."
He pulls out a chair, the only one not upside down.
"Sit, Due Stelle. First, tell me the dish you would want if it was your last night alive. And don't say something polite."