Late

Massimo and I have this running joke, which really isn't that funny.  We talk on the phone at least 5 times a day, and usually during my second call, around 11 a.m. (before the staff meeting he leads) or at 11:30 (immediately after), I ask him,

"Are you going to be late tonight?"

"I don't know, " he says.

"Well what time will you be home?"

"When I'm done."

Obviously, this infuriates me.  Every time.

He's always teased me that I have to have "the plan," that I can't do anything without "the plan."  Of course, this is coming from a man who packs his bags for Italy the morning we are due to leave.  I guess his point, though, is that so many things about his jobs, particularly his hours, are beyond his control, so there's no sense getting upset about them.  I guess other girls complain that their husband is late getting home from beers with the guys, or his softball game or something.  Massimo never has anything like that to delay him - it's always a VIP or The Kitchen Table or another vendor to phone.

This week was especially bad, for several reasons.  One of his key staff is injured, and out for at least a week, and well, thanks to the visit by the First Couple about a month ago, the restaurant is still slammed, despite the official arrival of summer and the slow season in Washington.  This week, a rather famous sports figure from another city enjoyed his Monday night meal of Hamachi Crudo and Risotto that he decided to come back again a second night - which meant Massimo didn't get home until midnight last night.  We headed to the Ebbitt at that late hour anyway to get martinis and shrimp and, in his case, buffalo wings.  When I told the story to my co-workers today they practically gasped.

"So late!"

I guess they never thought of just not getting any sleep as an option.  It's all part of "the plan."