Charging for bread & olive oil is a sin

musings on my family style wine counter

I hosted my first true restaurant experience last night at Grace’s Marketplace, the Upper East Side institution where going above & beyond isn’t a rare occurrence, but an expectation. It also happens to be owned and run by Uncles, my Mother, my Aunt and of course, my Grandmother. Tucked inside is Joe’s Chef’s Counter, a no frills 13-seat oasis where the ingredients sold at the market are turned into something that honors the sum of its parts. I like to call it the Bancone. The chef, Joe Trama, has been cooking with my family longer than I’ve been old enough to appreciate the quiet poetry of an oil-cured anchovy.

By 6:15 p.m., the counter was full. My guests—artists, merchants, misfits—gathered like a ragtag assembly of people who, in any other context, might have nothing in common. Except here, under the soft hum of the kitchen and the glow of good wine, we were bound by appetite. One of them, a 100-year-old sculptor, sat at the table like an oracle—lean, elegant fingers that once carved marble now curled around the stem of a Hudson Wilder wine glass. She spoke in riddles and recollections, dropping names of long-gone lovers and still-living rivals. She told me about my Great-Grandparents, their fruit & vegetable store down in the Village that she thought of has as her personal garden of Eden until James Beard made a big fuss and spoiled the fun.

The meal began with bread from Raf’s, a sourdough loaf so crisp and crackling it should come with a warning. I doused it in Calabrian chili oil from my friend Nino Asaro, which coated every bite in heat and lingering sweetness—much like my future ex-wife. (I have yet to meet her, but I imagine she wears red lipstick, spends my money well, and never apologizes.)

Then came trevisano and moro blood oranges, sautéed and reduced in their own juices. Sweet, bitter, braised down to their essence—which is exactly how I’d like to go when the Lord calls my name. This was followed by risotto di mare, stirred with the kind of patience that adds years to your life. Joe’s lamb chops—thick, glistening, cloaked in a pistachio crust—felt like something guests at my family’s restaurant might have eaten in the late ‘90s, when portions were substantial, reservations were secured by charm, and nobody dared pull their phone out at the table.

By dessert, the wine had softened us all. We drank three delectable and smooth Sicilians from Amunnini, and the conversation flowed just as easily. Friends, old and new, folded into each other, stories overlapping like vines in a tangled garden. Someone confessed a long-held love affair, someone else pitched a terrible business idea. The sculptor perched forward on the counter, watching us like we were a living masterpiece, nodding along to the rhythm of our laughter. We finished with a cannolo dripping in Luxardo, sticky-sweet and sinful, the kind of thing that makes you forget you are in polite company.

And when the night ended, no one wanted to leave. Which, really, is the mark of a good meal.