I translated a lovely personal essay by Andrea Bajani for the new issue of The Believer. It traces the end of one chapter of his life through his weekly visits to a favorite restaurant. Here’s the opening:

For many years, over the course of my first marriage, I dined alone on Tuesday evenings at a trattoria. What became a tradition began as a coincidence. My wife would have dinner plans with an old high school friend, or a yoga class, or couldn’t make it home from work in time. And her niece, who had moved in with us after a series of family misfortunes the previous year, had reached the age when one no longer asked whether she’d be home for dinner. In any case, I would descend the stairs to Corso Stati Uniti, where we lived at number 3, walk a couple of blocks, and sit down at a small table near the entrance of a place called the Ristoro Viareggio. This was in Turin, and among the outlines of the buildings, even at night, you could always see the Alps.