lino raze he was working in nightclubs in rome when he was twelve years old. he spent time in england before coming here. he opened his restaurant in 1980. if a place can still feel like a well-kept secret after everyone knows about it, this was that place. you walked down a steep set of stairs to descend into a dimly lit haven in which classical music played, quiet enough to almost be subliminal, and you ate the most delicious food until you weren't sure you'd be able to stand when you were finished. one night this elegant-looking little man came over to our table. it was lino. my dad asked him about his sauces. he gave us a bit of insight into how he made his famous tomato sauce. "the caesar salad dressing, though," he said, "i will never tell. and no books in any library will help you!" he must have stayed and talked with us for twenty minutes. he told us about his life. "people say to me, 'lino, when are you going to retire?' and i tell them, 'if i retire, i will be dead tomorrow.' this is my life. this is what i love to do." my dad told him we were best friends. lino smiled. he said something in italian. he translated: "i sing for you, though i do not know the song." we ordered dessert. the waitress brought us apple pie and ice cream. "what is this?" lino said, staring at our plates. "it looks like it's been in a fight with itself." he took the waitress aside. "excuse me. could you do something for me please? could you go into the kitchen and cut me another two pieces of apple pie? after you do that, if you could put one scoop of ice cream on the left side, and then one scoop on the right. the presentation is important. thank you." it was the gentlest reprimanding you can imagine. he never raised his voice. "you might think i'm cruel," he said after she went off to the kitchen, "but you have to teach these things. and you have to teach them one thing at a time, or the person will be overwhelmed and learn nothing." he thought for a second. then he said, "i apologize. i'll let you enjoy your dessert." "talking with you has been better than any meal we could ever have," i said. he grabbed my hand and said, "i love you too." then he walked away. and now he's done the unthinkable. he's retired. 200405 ... epitome of incomprehensibility Ha, he seems like a character. Not in a bad way. "It looks like it's been in a fight with itself" made me smile. 200405 ... raze he was sitting on a bench. he looked like a different person. all the life was gone from his face. he perked up when he started talking about the restaurant, vacillating between joy and anger. he said he sat down with the man who bought the place from him. he showed him receipts to prove how much money he made. to prove nothing was broken. he told him what to buy and where to buy it from. "i told him, 'semper idem.' keep everything the same. but did he listen? now it's dead. now nobody comes." he said he fell into a deep depression after selling the restaurant and seeing his legacy ruined by someone who thought he could make more money by giving the customers less of what they had come to expect at a lower level of quality for a higher price. and like every other clueless would-be restauranteur who's tried this scheme and failed, the man who was sure he knew better was shocked when it didn't work. lino said he'd been taking antidepressants. "but you have made my day. today i don't need to take the little blue pill." 210718 ... raze we saw him today. he looked a little better than the last time, but something was still missing. i've never seen anyone move so slow without injury or frailty taking their wheels away. he looked sad even when he smiled. he couldn't remember our names. he called us "you and you". "life is fairly decent," he said. my dad said sometimes all you can do is keep going. "yes," lino said. "we will do that." behind his empty eyes i could see a small spark trying to catch fire. "until we meet again," he said, "on the great avenues of the evergreen." he's still in there somewhere. 211109 what's it to you? who go blather from