After Clarke in the serving line, I load my plate as full as his. We file into the dining room and find our seats. Richard winks at me from across the table—too bad we can’t lock ankles from here. I raise my water in time with their wine. Then I swallow lump after lump of—pearl onions? Unrendered fat? The sauce makes everything hard to identify.
They have place cards for seating at the table but pile dishes in a buffet line?
