In 2014, I opened a small trattoria on Maple Row with eleven tables, a wood fired oven and a mural of a dignified tomato. I called it Trattoria Whisker. The first night, we served 31 covers and I wept in the larder.
The menu was short: linguine with clams, a fish of the day, a tiramisu that I still dream about. The reviewer from the Hollow Oak Gazette called it ‘a revelation, but with too much garlic.’ I framed the review and hung it by the bathroom. Today the trattoria seats 64 and serves 190 on a Saturday, but the tomato mural remains. It is the only part of the place that has never asked for a raise.
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