Lockdown red became careful orange before turning to a liberal yellow, and a midday stop at an osteria once again became a possibility. I enter Osteria di Santo Spirito, at the upper right tip of the piazza, and ask if the fellow I’m meeting has arrived. A finger points to a table in the corner with two place settings, both empty, tables strategically set away one from the other. “That’s his,” the long blonde-haired lady says, her eyes smiling, though whether her mouth is doing the same is unknown, hidden as it is behind an oversized surgical mask. I take my place in the corner seat, double-masked as usual, and take in the tavern-like surroundings. A deep terracotta orange enlivens the walls adorned with a few paintings and etchings, and even a tea rack that seems to have escaped from a New York East Village 1960s trattoria.