She loosened her grip and slipped her arm free, feigning an itchy cheek. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Bianchi’s.’
‘Italian, I’m guessing?’
‘Italian on steroids,’ he said with a smile. ‘With the best meatballs in the world. It’s an institution, but it’s kinda tucked away, so it’s one of those you-go-if-you-know places, but not in a wanky way. It’s very traditional. You’ll see what I mean when we get there. It’s not far now.’
They rounded a corner and he pointed to an understated glass shopfront on the other side of the street. ‘There it is.’
A simple sign bearing the restaurant’s name sat above an awning protecting the footpath out the front, where a couple of older gentlemen sat playing cards on a table littered with espresso cups. Netta and Mo crossed the road and, as they neared the door, one of the men lifted his head and smiled at Mo.
‘Buongiorno, Mo!’ he said, then struggled to his feet and reached to shake Mo’s hand.
Mo hurried to his side and wrapped his arm around his back. ‘Buongiorno, Stefano!’ he said. ‘Sit, sit.’
‘And who is this?’
‘This is my friend, Netta,’ Mo said. ‘I’ve brought her to experience Gianna’s life-changing meatballs. Netta, this is Stefano, the owner of Bianchi’s.’
Stefano brought his fingertips to his lips and kissed them. ‘Buonissime, Netta. You will love them. Gianna’s polpette are the best in London! Now, get yourselves in out of the cold. GiGi will have your special table for you, Mo.’
Mo smiled his thanks and held the door open for Netta. The restaurant was warm and scented with a heady mix of coffee and garlic and rich tomato sauce. A bar ran its length and people sat at it, drinking espresso and wine and eating from small white plates. The walls were hung with photos of the shop spanning decades, portraits of members of the Bianchi family and framed vintage advertisements for coffee machines, faded with age but effortlessly cool in an actually retro way. A mix of English and Italian conversation filled the room, occasionally interrupted by the hiss of the coffee machine or the clanking of crockery. Netta, who had a deep disdain for fancy restaurants, was in heaven.
Nobody looked twice at Mo as he nudged his way through the crowd to the kitchen door. He knocked gently before opening it just enough to poke his head through.
‘Gianna?’
‘Morrison!’
A woman, sixty-ish, appeared from behind the kitchen counter. She was big-bosomed and red-lipped, her bottle-dark hair swept into an impossible pile on the top of her head. Her glasses perched on the end of her nose.
‘Ciao, bello!’ she exclaimed, a smile lighting her whole face. She bustled out from behind the counter, drying her hands on her apron, and wrapped Mo in a hug. ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you, naughty boy.’ She patted him affectionately on the cheek. ‘And who have you brought to meet me?’ Pushing Mo aside, she clasped her hands to her chest and grinned. ‘Eh, Mo, she is beautiful!’
Gianna scooped Netta into the squeeziest hug Netta had ever received from a total stranger and then held her back to examine her again, grasping her shoulders. ‘Welcome,’ she said, warmly. ‘I am Gianna, andyouare the first girlfriend this man has ever brought to my kitchen!’
‘This is Netta,’ said Mo with a wry smile. ‘Myfriend.’
‘Yes, yes.Friend,’ repeated Gianna, winking at Netta. ‘Come, sit.’ She gestured to the lone, white-clothed table in the corner, positioned in full view of the kitchen and already set with cutlery and two plates. ‘Now, what can I get you?’ she asked as they settled into their seats. ‘Some pasta for starters?’
‘I think we’ll go straight to mains …?’ Mo raised his eyebrows at Netta in question.
She nodded in agreement. ‘I don’t think I can wait a whole course to try these amazing meatballs I’ve been hearing about.’
‘The usual it is!’ said Gianna.
‘And I think we both need a drink, too?’ Mo looked at Netta again for confirmation.
‘Yes please,’ nodded Netta, smiling at Gianna. ‘A wine would be great.’
As if by magic, Gianna produced two glasses and generously filled them with a deep red wine. As Netta raised her glass for a sip, a basket of warm bread appeared on the table, then Gianna was gone again, back behind the stove, moving with fluid efficiency, stirring, tasting, chopping as effortlessly as breathing.
Mo closed his eyes as he enjoyed his first mouthful of the rich red wine.
‘This is awesome,’ said Netta, reaching for the bread.
Mo swallowed and his eyes snapped open. ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ he said with mock seriousness. ‘This place is too good to share.’
‘So, you’re a regular then?’
