The Menu

I can't say bruschetta. I say it the way it looks, with a “sh,” and the waiter says it back to me correctly, in a calm voice, the way you'd confirm a name. “Brus-ketta.” I say, “Brus-ketta.” He says, “Great.”

I've tried other methods. I listened to the next table. I ordered it as “the bread with the tomatoes.” Andre said, “The bruschetta?” and I said yes, so we both knew.

I've pointed. I've said, “Number four,” which wasn't a number on the menu. It was the fourth item, and Andre counted down with me.

We've been doing this for two years. Now he says it before I do. “The bruschetta?” “Please.” I've never once said it in that restaurant, and I've never needed to.

Last month, he brought the check, and at the bottom, in pen, he'd written the word. Spelled right. B-R-U-S, and then the rest.

I've kept the check.