Salt, Silk and a Glass of Bubbles

The heavy wooden door clicks shut behind me, leaving the winter air on the other side.

Inside, Mister Sandrino is warm and close. Bottles line the walls from floor to ceiling, their labels forming uneven rows of red, cream and green. Tables sit almost shoulder to shoulder. To reach my seat, I turn sideways between two chairs while someone behind me laughs into a half-finished glass of wine.

The room smells of toasted bread, garlic and something faintly earthy — perhaps old wood, perhaps cork.

A silver-haired woman moves between the tables as though the narrow spaces were made for her. She rests a hand briefly on one guest's shoulder, remembers another guest's drink, and smiles at me before disappearing behind a row of chairs.

I order a glass of Italian sparkling wine.

The stem is cool between my fingers. The first sip is bright and dry, with tiny bubbles that gather at the tip of my tongue. Outside, the evening is dark and cold. Here, voices overlap beneath the low pendant lights.

Then the taramasalata arrives.

It sits in a generous swirl on a ceramic plate, pale pink and almost too smooth to disturb. A scattering of salmon roe glows across the top — small beads of orange and red caught in the warm light.

Beside it is a stack of flatbread, still hot.

I tear one piece in half. The thin surface crackles, while the softer centre releases a little breath of steam. I drag it through the taramasalata, collecting a thick fold of the dip and several shining pearls of roe.

The bread is warm against my fingers.

The taramasalata is cool, airy and rich with the saltiness of cod roe. It softens almost immediately on my tongue. Then the ikura begins to burst — one pearl, then another — releasing brief flashes of the sea through the creamy dip.

Soft and crisp. Cool and warm. Salt followed by bubbles.

A little taramasalata catches at the corner of my mouth. I wipe it away with the tip of my tongue before reaching for the wine again.

The sparkling wine clears the richness, leaving a faint savoury taste behind.

Around me, glasses touch, chairs scrape and conversations rise and fall. The woman passes our table once more, pausing just long enough to ask whether everything is good.

I look at the nearly empty plate.

"Yes," I say.

Though by then, the answer is already obvious.