I worked at Oliveto off and on for five years. I grew up two blocks away and considered myself lucky to have made it into a better restaurant. When I was twenty-two, the summer after I graduated from college, I worked the morning shift at the cafe. Like all good cafes, we had our regulars - the commuters grabbing a coffee before hopping on Bart, the three guys who had been meeting there for a decade, the mother who had just dropped off her kids at school, and the couple who came in every Friday and sat outside - in their specific chair arrangement - to watch foot traffic go by. 

  Two guys who sat at the bar became my regulars, my people. One I had known for years already. He was a wine salesman, a raconteur, and a celebrity in the neighborhood. The other guy seemed to have just shown up alone, and we adopted. I got engaged, I got married, I got pregnant. My husband worked mornings, but I managed to drag him in and show him off with the pride of a woman who had really scored (and I had). When my stomach became too big to lean over the tables without knocking over glasses, I simply switched to the other side of the counter and sat with my two regulars every morning. By then, they really were family.

  I had my first daughter and brought her to the cafe most mornings. Then I had my second daughter, and it was getting hard to fit the infant car seat on the stool while one of the guys held the toddler on their lap. I watched the posturing of our raconteur soften and melt when he talked about his wife. The third of the trio had an elementary-aged daughter, and when he spoke about her growing up, he softened, too. We were all softening as our hearts spread out.

  My new life as a wife and mom kept me home more mornings. When I could; I sauntered in through the cafe doors, usually with the girls on my hips. Hugs, cappuccinos, and hot chocolates for everyone! Those were the days, as they say. We loved coffee, we loved good food, we loved the neighborhood, and most importantly, we loved to talk. I have one tangible object of that wonderful time in my life: the platter from The Spanish Table that the raconteur and his wife gave us as a wedding gift. He passed away years after, leaving a grief as big as his personality was, much more so for people who knew him best. He is missed. The days at the cafe counter are missed. Every time I serve a meal on this platter, I pause. He would have loved that I’ve had this damn platter for so long. Twenty-four years of this platter. Twenty-four years of laughs, fights, parties, holidays, birthdays. What a gift.