Casa Nora, between services. The white truffle the whole seasonal menu rests on arrived yesterday from Piedmont wrapped in rice, inside its box, on the high shelf of the cold room: two hundred grams worth more than every plate in the house. At five in the afternoon the box is where it belongs, so is the rice, and the truffle is not. The cold room door makes a noise you can hear from the kitchen.
A liar lies about everything they say.