The restaurant was the kind of place that didn't need to try.It was effortlessly beautiful and don’t even get me started on the menu,the food was impossibly good.Enzo's friend Marco owned it, a tall Italian man with the energy of someone who had seen everything twice and found most of it charming. He'd greeted us at the door with genuine warmth, kissed my hand, told Enzo he'd done well, and shown us personally to a table by the window overlooking the street."He's lovely," I said, after Marco disappeared."He's been trying to set me up for two years," Enzo said, opening the menu. "He's going to be insufferable about this.""About what?"He looked at me over the top of the menu with an expression that said, you know exactly what.I looked back at my menu and tried not to smile.New York was different from Paris. Paris had been romantic by design, but New York didn't care. New York had its own agenda and you either kept up or got out of the way, which was somehow its own kind of magic
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