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"I thought it was right," said Tommy.

"Well, that was nice," said Charlie. "That was nice, but, you see what I'm wearin' . . . My fuckin' lawyers say I gotta wear this alla time . . . a fuckin' bathrobe. They make me out like I'm simple in the head if I gotta go to court."

Tommy laughed and leaned over his veal chop for a sniff.

"Is that some beautiful veal, or what? Look at that," said Charlie proudly. He put a large white bowl filled with steamed artichokes in vinaigrette down on the table.

"It's gorgeous," said Tommy.

Charlie took off the red chef's hat and padded off to a double-doored Traulsen reach-in. He opened the right-hand door and pulled out a large wooden bowl filled with salad.

"What have you got there?" asked Tommy.

"Ho, ho," beamed Charlie. "I got some radicchio, I got some Belgian endive, I got some arugula, a little red-tip lettuce, a little romaine." He put the salad down in the center of the table. He went back to the refrigerator and returned with a small glass bowl of roasted red peppers. "Somebody makes these for me down the street . . . " He brought a plate of sliced vine-ripened tomatoes over. "None a that shit they grow in the fuckin' greenhouse, that shit they spray with the gas . . . " He reached up on a shelf for a box of Genoa toast. "I like this better than croutons," he said. He put some black olives on the table with some extra-virgin olive oil and a bottle of vinegar.

"I forgot the mozzarella," said Charlie. "You gotta try this stuff, it's outta this world . . . They put just the right amount a salt." He placed a dripping ball of fresh mozzarella on the large wooden butcher block next to the broiler and took a ten-inch Wiisthof chef's knife out of a well-stocked utility drawer. He unhooked a steel from a hook on the shelf and honed the blade with a few quick strokes. He put the steel back on the hook and hovered over the mozzarella. Grasping the cheese with his left hand, his fingers perpendicular to the knife, the tips tucked in and away from the blade, he began to slide the knife through. "Am I doin' it right, Chef?" he asked. He sliced four perfect thin slices onto the board.

"You handle that like a pro," said Tommy. "You don't need me to tell you that."

Charlie beamed at him. He arranged the slices of mozzarella on a plate and put it next to Tommy's veal chop. Then he reached for a serving fork and spoon from the table. He took them both in one hand and expertly served the salad.

"Who showed you how to do that?" said Tommy. "I didn't show you that."

Charlie laughed and poured some red wine into their glasses. "Some things you don't forget how to do. I worked tables for my brother-in-law Bobby when I was a kid. Out there on City Island, a rug joint. All the waiters hadda wear these little green jackets with the tails on 'em. Bow ties, the whole nine yards . . . You know, I musta been about fifteen years old . . . And did that fuckin' joint do business. They worked us like we was animals at that place. You hadda make the Caesar salads right there onna floor. You hadda do the thing with the egg, get the yolk out, grind up the anchovy and all that. . . and you hadda do everything with a fork an' spoon. No hands . . . You shoulda seen this fuckin' place . . . They had these carts for everything . . ."

"Gueridons?" asked Tommy.

"That's those carts you cook on, right? Yeah, they had those. They had a cart for everything. You had your salad carts, your dessert cart, your cheese cart. . . You had those things you cook on with the sterno, the gueridons. The fuckin' waiters hadda do everything. Mosta these kids workin there, they're doin' it like a summer job, or maybe they know somebody who wants to give a friend a job . . . they don't know what the fuck they're doin' out there. They hadda make these things, these crepe suzettes, steak inna brandy sauce, all sortsa flamin coffees . . . And these punks are lightin themselves up like the fuckin' Human Torch on a regular basis. Right there inna fuckin'