Chapter 8

Mike and I arrived at Biscottis right on the dot of eight. The place was packed, which is normal for a Saturday evening, but we only had to wait about ten minutes for a table. The restaurant, only a little over a mile or so from my house, had opened in late 1993 and had become an instant neighborhood favorite. We both ordered the salmon baked in phyllo dough, along with a salad, and we shared a bottle of Pinot Grigio, managing to stretch our dinner experience to considerably more than an hour. We arrived back at the house in a pleasantly relaxed state.