Too Special (Or, What You Do When Someone You Love Keeps His Best Work To Himself)

Monday, August 31, 2026. 12:07pm. Sale Pepe.

I walked into the restaurant for a meeting with my team, and my husband stopped me at the door. He had a surprise, he said. He went rooting around in the oven and pulled two full trays of focaccia out.

Michele's focaccia, like most things he makes, was exceptional. Its surface was deep gold, bronzed at the corners, dimpled and pooled with olive oil in every hollow. When I tore off a piece to try, the inside was all pockets and puffs of warm air. And there were two versions: one bold and plain, unapologetically showing off its simplicity, and another one loaded, with kalamata olives, small pops of yellow and red cherry tomato, slivers of red onion pressed whole into the dimples, oregano from southern Italy finishing it off. 

"It's mostly water," he shrugged. "High hydration."

Most of what Michele makes this well, he treats as ordinary. Take the ravioli. It took years before he agreed to add it to our rotation at Sale Pepe. He'd say yes to making small batches by hand for the family but would balk when I'd beg him to make more. 

“Just a little batch”, I'd say. “Just enough for one night of service. It's September, you won't need much to get us through the night.”

Silence.

For years. 

Now, it’s a bestseller, a signature dish and a special that sells out whenever we run it. 

This just goes to show how when I think he's really onto something, he calls it too much trouble for the volume a restaurant requires. 

“Too special”, he says.

His instinct is to keep something extraordinary off the blackboard unless he knows he can make it exactly the way he wants, rather than risk compromising it. Which is exactly the instinct I keep pushing against, because I know that he has indeed nailed it and I want his work in front of people, not protected from them.

And today we’re having the same argument again, this time over focaccia. With Michele insisting that small batches of special things be kept just for us. And me nudging him to open up and share his gifts with everyone. 

Back in the aughts when I used to work in the music industry, and heard something I thought would be a hit record, I used to get a tingly, goosebumpy feeling through my whole body. I get it when I read an excellent book or watch a film that gets it right. I felt that tingle today, biting into that focaccia.

I want to serve it, because once again Michele has made something that has stopped me in my tracks.

This batch, he insisted, was only a test. 

But, he quietly conceded with a smile, “I’ll make another one Wednesday.”