A simple thing done well, whether it is a memorable paragraph or a black dress or a swan dive cutting through the air and into the water without notice is always memorable. The food at Adriana’s that night was like that, simple but not really. Into the mouth without splashing. Warm, but not heavy. Warming not just to the body but to some other appetite. Good company perhaps, or the closeness of a warm kitchen in the San Francisco fog. Risotto, meatball soup, salad, and a massive chocolate cake somewhat resembling the Great Pyramid at Cheops. First the risotto. It must be the native Italian blood Adriana gets from her mother, that makes the rice kernels open up instinctively just for her. What is the secret sauce, not a bland buttery broth as in my attempts but something red and spicy. Slighty sticky, and real, something that dances soft and wild and deep and rich across the tongue. Flamenco rissoto? Something you could live on. And then the meatball soup, but meatballs are the wrong word. More like meat dumplings, little and floating and light like clouds. You chase them out of the brothy bowl with your spoon like the wind chases clouds. Savory, the whole thing, and the conversation like spice through out. Wine, candles, the long bank of candles that cross the table like an altar. And this is the church we have come to worship at, the church of nourishment, of glad company. The heat of the candles, the flush of the wine, the love that is in the food made by friends. I haven’t forgotten dessert. Chocolate cake, thick as the night up over Twin Peaks.. Real chocolate cake. The Aztec Gods were winking at us like the city lights. Dinner at Adriana’s. A fork is recommended.