A 1950s converted mansion, Scottsdale’s most exclusive restaurant sits above the city at the end of a curvy torch-lit drive. Most of the waiters are Italian and speak with the most charming accents, saying things like “buona sera” and “il piacere è tutto mio,” which could mean your hair looks like shit or there’s risotto stuck in your teeth, but I don’t care. I love the sounds. People wait three weeks for a reservation. Evan sure has connections. We sold a house to the executive chef and his wife last summer. Evan and I head toward the double-door glass entrance, passing under cascading sheets of water that drape off either side of the porte cochere’s roof and splash into ponds filled with large koi and bordered with smooth boulders. We walk inside, greeted by the chatter of diners, clinking wineglasses, and smells of garlic, tomatoes, and pasta. Is there anything better? What a perfect place to unveil a surprise, especially a surprise for me.
