Who’s Gianpiero?

For years, my wife and I returned to a particular restaurant. It was elegant without being stuffy, with extraordinary food and a level of hospitality that made every visit feel like an occasion. We didn’t need an anniversary or birthday to go there. Sometimes we simply wanted a wonderful evening, and we knew where to find one.

There was a familiarity that developed over time. We recognized the people who worked there, and they recognized us. One of the owners, whom I’ll call Gianpiero, was especially memorable. He had a wonderful accent, an easy warmth, and a way of making guests feel that their presence mattered. He seemed to take genuine pleasure in the experience he and his colleagues created. I suppose that’s what I remember most. You weren’t simply being served dinner. You were being welcomed.

Even during the pandemic, the restaurant found a way to offer meals packaged to enjoy at home. For an establishment known for its dining room, takeout seemed almost improbable, but we ordered and appreciated the effort. When the restrictions lifted, we went back, and it was reassuring to see familiar faces.

On one of our later visits, Gianpiero was particularly generous with the seasonal truffles. He shaved them over our dishes with an enthusiasm that suggested he was enjoying himself as much as we were. I can’t remember exactly what we ate that evening, but I remember the truffles and the conversation. He told us he would be retiring. His wife wanted him home more, he said, laughing. We laughed, too. I had the impression that he was looking forward to retirement, although I couldn’t imagine him being entirely comfortable away from the restaurant.

He also seemed a little disappointed by how informal dining out had become. People dressed more casually, and some of the customs of a fine restaurant were fading. I shared a little of that. Not because I thought everyone needed a jacket and tie, but because I enjoyed the ceremony of it, the sense that an ordinary evening could become memorable because everyone treated it as something worth doing well.

I knew the restaurant would be different without him. Still, there were other talented people there, including the chef who had helped build its reputation. The restaurant had a life of its own, one that would continue long after Gianpiero stopped greeting guests.

Recently, I found myself back in that dining room. My wife was with me, although the place looked different. It was unusually dark, almost as though someone had forgotten to turn on half the lights. Most of the tables were empty, yet there was an enormous party of perhaps sixty people gathered in another part of the restaurant. I couldn’t understand how the place could seem so deserted and so crowded at the same time.

We had dinner, and it was perfectly good. At some point, I asked for confectioners’ sugar. Why I wanted it, I couldn’t say, although the request seemed entirely reasonable. Later, I mentioned Gianpiero to someone who worked there. I assumed the name would be familiar.

“Who’s Gianpiero?”

I was astonished. He had been so much a part of the place that I couldn’t imagine anyone working there not knowing him.

The question followed me into the morning. I could still picture the dim dining room and the large gathering, although I knew by then that the evening had taken place only in a dream.

I’ve spent much of my professional life in organizations, sometimes staying for years and becoming deeply involved in the work. There were people I saw almost every day, colleagues whose judgment I trusted and whose presence I came to expect. We shared successes and disappointments, changes in leadership, and the ordinary business of getting through difficult weeks. Sometimes we talked about our families and our worries, and things we weren’t prepared to discuss with people outside the workplace.

Some of those relationships became friendships, and a few have lasted. But when I think about the organizations I’ve left, I’m still in touch with very few people from those years. I’m a little sad about that, but not entirely. I remember some colleagues with great affection, even though we haven’t spoken in a decade or longer. Others have faded from my thoughts, only to reappear when something reminds me of a meeting, a conversation, or an experience we shared.

I wonder how many people I’ve forgotten who once mattered to me. There are former colleagues I genuinely liked, people I would have been delighted to hear from, yet I haven’t made much effort to contact them. We promised to stay in touch, and perhaps we intended to. Then the shared work disappeared, our routines changed, and the conversations that once happened almost without effort required planning. There were new people to meet, other matters demanding attention. I don’t remember deciding to let those relationships go.

On the rare occasions I’ve been back to a place where I once worked, I noticed how little of it I recognized. The building may be familiar, but the people are different. Names that once filled conversations mean nothing to those who arrived later. Someone who played an important role for years might be remembered by only a handful of longtime employees. And I suspect the same would be true of me. I once knew the people, the routines, and the little stories that explained why things were done a certain way. I knew whom to ask for help and whom to avoid on a difficult afternoon. The friendships that ended with the job don’t seem any less genuine to me.

I know that organizations must continue without us. I’ve helped them do exactly that. I’ve welcomed new colleagues, occupied offices once belonging to someone else, and participated in conversations in which people from an earlier era were scarcely mentioned. I have enjoyed those new beginnings.

In the dream, the restaurant was still operating. The dinner was good, and an enormous group of people was having an evening of its own. Whatever darkness I noticed hadn’t prevented them from gathering. They had no reason to know the man whose generosity with truffles I could still remember so clearly.

“Who’s Gianpiero?”

And somewhere in my memory, I can still hear his accent and his laughter as he explained why his wife wanted him home.

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