Cristo was smiling his stained and gap-toothed grin and started talking to me.

“He’s saying he’s flattered that the food they’ve prepared will be so enjoyed.”

“Tell him you’ve been starving me in preparation to experience his cooking.”

“Je—no. Mon dieu.” Xavier flashed a semi amused and semi shocked glance at me before relaying some sort of message to Cristo. Cristo seemed gratified, and then began pointing and explaining.

Some didn’t need too much explanation. There was a charcuterie board with a selection of meats and cheeses, some more olives, small fried squid, large glistening pink prawns lightly dusted with something and surrounded by big, fat, juicy lemons. There was some type of lighter colored meat, surrounded by round balls and carrots. “Wild boar and roasted chestnuts,” Xavier explained when I stared at it too long.

All the dishes looked sumptuous but small so we could taste everything.

Cristo opened a dusty bottle of red wine and set it to the side for now, and then shuffled away and disappeared.

“My mouth is watering.” I pointed at a bowl. “To be honest this looks like southern grits.”

“Grits?”

“Made of coarse cornmeal.”

“Ah, like polenta. Yes, this is Corsican though. So it will be made of chestnut flour. It’s to be served with the lamb or with anything you like.”

“Served the same as grits too, then. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Certainly in South Carolina. And people either love them or hate them. There’s no in between.”

“How are they prepared?”

“Simple butter and salt, sometimes with cheese, sometimes with sausage gravy,” I listed. “Definitely with shrimp and bourbon gravy. You name it. Some people even have it sweetened with syrup.” I made a face. “Though that’s a sin in my household.”

Xavier served my plate with a little bit of everything, and I began eating. The flavors were incredible. No herb was overpowering, but everything tasted fresh and bursting with flavor. I identified fennel, garlic, rosemary and, of course, chestnut.

“Tell me about growing up,” Xavier asked after we’d all but decimated the initial offerings, neither of us able to talk for too long before putting something else in our mouths. It was hard not to moan aloud.

Cristo had just been up and ladled out some kind of seafood bisque that was making me delirious. I was getting so full, and the now finished carafe of wine had made us both languid, relaxed, and laughing freely.

I answered Xavier, telling him about growing up in downtown Charleston and going to private school. We shared similar stories of what that was like and the kind of friends who lasted from that time.

He told me about the nuns at his Catholic private school and how he credited them with keeping him on the straight and narrow.