{Originally posted March 26, 2024}

Tonight we ordered the house salad, with finely shaved radicchio, scattered with pillowy cubes of mozzarella and small diced heirloom tomatoes folded within an exuberant vinaigrette. We reevaluated the menu and weighed the evening’s specials inside a neighborhood Italian restaurant filled with people who might answer often to Nana or Poppy, but are still well coifed and fragrant in public.

I hadn’t stepped foot inside this restaurant in many years, mostly because it’s so close to my home that I don’t think of it. This is my husband’s go-to restaurant for client lunches/dinners and was his last moment pick when I told him I was making a quick chickpea, orzo and mustard greens stew for dinner tonight.

We were the second youngest people in the restaurant, yet still underdressed. An older couple two booths down maniacally rolled a blanket-wrapped stroller into the aisle and back against their booth over and over again, disturbing my peripheral vision and my still chirping motherly instincts. They must be the grandparents. Too hot! That baby is indoors! Get that blanket shroud off before it suffocates! Or is it “they”?

I couldn’t decide between the blue crab fettuccine special and a house favorite, shrimp in pink cognac sauce over linguine, so the server offered me a plate with both. I was beside myself with gratitude. Seriously? “I feel like a 9 year old boy at The Spaghetti Factory! But no Mizithra cheese on shrimp or crab.” I told him. Blasphemous.

Why don’t I ever think to eat here? It’s too close to home, like I told you. Like baking a cake to eat on your front lawn.

Both tables on either side of us were empty. A small corner booth next to us was suddenly being filled by a petite, mature woman who greeted the staff by their first names as she settled in. She was alone, wore a white Chanel boucle jacket with a black placket, and a shoulder length blonde wig that sat a bit askew, drawing my attention even more to her face than if she hadn’t worn it. She sat facing us and blankly watched us eat salad. Our server asked her if she’d like Cabernet as if he knew her and he did. She said “Yes, thank you, Casey. And I’d like a mushroom sauce with spaghetti and a mushroom ravioli, to-go.” He asked her “Two or four?” “Four”. I kept looking at this woman. She looked familiar in some way.

Our pastas were delivered to us and when she saw my oblong plate mounded with two separate pastas, she asked “What IS that pasta that you ordered?” I told her I was waffling between two, so they let me try both. I told her I hadn’t been to the restaurant in years, so I hadn’t tried either one. “Oh, I’ve been coming here three times a week for decades! It’s not on the menu, but they make the BEST and I MEAN it, the BEST aglio e olio pasta I’ve ever had.” “Ooh, good to know. I’ll order it next time. I need to come here more often. My husband is actually coming here again tomorrow for lunch. He’s been coming here for years too.” She’s a bit hard of hearing, but so am I, and I think – I hope to be an elegant older woman dining alone on garlicky pasta and Cabernet when I’m her age. Her face is so beautiful, some work done for sure, but reworked by the finest hammers and pins. She tells us she will soon be celebrating her 80th birthday at the restaurant, in June. My husband clapped at her and we told her how beautiful she still is and we meant it. She said “I can’t believe I’m turning 80!” I said “I feel like I’m 30 inside, don’t you?” She said, “30?! Try 17!” The three of us laughed and took sips of our wine. We continued to talk to this lovely, almost 80 year old woman while we waited for our check. She scanned the restaurant as someone who frequents a place over decades, does. I wondered if she was a widow. I watch her face as she looks straight ahead holding the base of her wine glass. She is very regal. Not a smidge of unease in her body. She’s been places. She’s seen things. I think maybe she was once someone famous. Or, a model. She just doesn’t seem like a mere mortal eating dinner out on a Tuesday night. We say goodbye to her as we stand and wish her a very happy 80th birthday. She thanks us and tips her glass to us as we head toward the doors on Westwood Boulevard.

I am still thinking about her face as we walk to the car. The blonde woman who loves mushrooms and garlic was so familiar in a distant, gauzy way. As we were about to pull away from the curb, I said to my husband. “It just came to me now. I think that was Michelle Phillips.” He pulled up a recent photo of her on his phone and it was definitely her. If we had recognized her from the start, she would have never spoken to us.