“I suppose I’m here to run back to when things go south. You must know how insulting that is. It makes me feel like a parent.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it.” She brandished the red Buca di Beppo pen she’d lifted from his car months before. “Here—I’m returning this. I stole it.”

“Keep it.” He drove on. They passed autumnal foliage and evergreen shrubs, crack houses and kindergartens, liquor stores and libraries, and merged onto the freeway. “You hungry?”

The waiter knew instinctively where Mr. Z wanted to sit. Though the restaurant was deserted—it wasn’t yet six o’clock—they were led to a corner booth in the Grotto, a private room two steps down from the main dining area. There, the walls and ceiling were covered in a tangle of plastic grapevines, empty wine bottles and more reproduction vacation photos than Rosemary had ever seen.

“This is such a cool, cool place.” She leaned back and gazed at the decor.

“Glad you like it.” He called a waiter over. “A pint of Moretti for me, a strawberry shake for the young lady, and garlic bread for the table, to start.”

She liked how confidently he ordered, without consulting her or the menu, and how he said, “for the table, to start.” Her father would have taken an eternity to make up his mind, plus he’d never order alcohol at any non-Korean establishment because he was paranoid about being cheated.

“I love it here,” Rosemary said, finally. “It’s so unique.”

“Can you imagine, a bunch of suits sitting in a Minneapolis office park, deciding what goes on the walls of each one of these eighty branches?”

“Wait. This restaurant’s part of a chain?” Rosemary’s enchantment dipped.

“Oh, my poor, poor bunny.” He gazed at her. She detected a little sneer at the edge of his lips, then it vanished. “Look at the prompt service, the organized clutter, the large yet homogenized menu. How could this be anything but a chain for Americans who think they’re individuals who eat at special places but don’t want the anxiety of the strange menu they’d get at a real Italian restaurant.”

Along with their drinks, a large clump of garlic bread arrived, steaming with heat. Mr Z. asked for chicken parmigiana and something called “strangled priest,” again without glancing at the menu.

The garlic bread burned the roof of Rosemary’s mouth, but she could eat this food forever, with Mr. Z sitting across from her, their feet occasionally bumping, famous arias flowing from the speakers. She sucked on her strawberry milkshake and leaned back. The shake had a comforting synthetic flavor, reminiscent of her early childhood with its store-bought quilts and Barney the purple dinosaur singing, “I love you, you love me.”

“Do you take your wife here?”