We went in search of the perfect, simple Italian meal. We walked for blocks and blocks, looking at restaurants and dismissing them as not quite perfect enough. Finally, we found a place near the river, with a table in the back, where we had buffalo mozzarella, prosciutto, artichokes drenched in olive oil, pasta with ragout, and a bottle of Chianti. For once, Ricardo didn’t have his spiral notebook out. “For someone like me,” he said, “this is as good as it gets.” Sitting there, I felt a thousand years removed from the anxieties that awaited me back in Washington. We had done something big and
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