It was a small ristorante. About the size of a walk-in closet, only with less legroom. It was raining in small-town Italy. The slick, cobbled streets looked like a shiny lawsuit waiting to happen.

The older woman welcomed us into her place of business. She had no other customers today because of the weather.

“No tourists ever visit in the rain,” she said.

She motioned for us to come in by saying, “Prego, prego.”

They say “prego” a lot over here. They say it more than “grazie.” More than you’d expect.

Prego means “you are welcome,” technically. But it can also mean other things, such as “after you,” and “please, come in,” “how may I help you?” and “would you like mass amounts of carbohydrates?” In short, Prego sort of means “I care about you.” Even if only for right now. Prego.

The woman had a framed picture of a young woman on the counter. The image had flowers adorning the frame and glass votives flickering beside it.

The woman noticed me looking at the photo.

“She die last year,” the woman said. “She was my—how you say in English? My daughter.”

I don’t ask how her daughter passed because (a) it’s none of my business, and (b) our communication is limited. I am a big, dumb, redhead American who only knows how to say “grazie” and “prego” and other such words from “The Godfather.”

We have a seat in the back of the restaurant.

“You want gnocchi?” the woman asks us.

“Gnocchi?”

“Si. I just a’cook the gnocchi this morning.” Then she adds, “Is a’fresh.”

We haven’t even looked at a menu but there’s no need. It’s raining. This woman has made gnocchi. If we don’t eat it, odds are nobody today will. Besides, it is a’fresh.

“Grazie,” I say.

“Prego.”

Soon, we have two ginormous bowls of hot gnocchi. The steam hits our faces, the smell of fresh herbs is overpowering. Which makes me wonder how I ever settled for a gas station burrito.

For anyone like me, who doesn’t know what gnocchi is because we were reared on peanut butter and jelly, gnocchi are a type of chewy, soft pasta. Think: dumplings. Basically, little balls of dough made from flour, egg, and mashed potato, often served in tomato sauce, butter, or any substance you can pour over it. Comfort food.

I point to the votives and photograph. “Did your daughter like gnocchi?”

I’m only trying to make polite conversation. But the woman seems flattered that I even asked. Her face changes. “She love’a the gnocchi. Favorite food’a for her.”

“How old was she?”

“Ventisei.”

Twenty-six.

It’s all she says. But her eyes tell what she’s thinking.

“I always make a’gnocchi for her when she was bambina.”

The woman holds her hand about knee-high, palm down. The universal gesture for “child.” And I can tell she’s missing hers.

We sit for a while, eating gnocchi and watching rain outside the open restaurant door, falling upon an arrestingly beautiful Italy. The woman sits in her chair, facing the street, watching the downpour, hands in her lap. Smoking the skinniest cigarette I’ve ever seen.

The votives flicker on a table beside her. Sometimes she glances at the photo. Then back to the street. Then she asks how we are doing, and whether we need any more wine, or beer, or bread, or whatever.

No, we tell her. We’ve had a few rough travel days in Italy, negotiating their exciting and wonderful transportation system. We’re fine just sitting here for a spell.

“Prego, prego,” she replies with a smile, then goes back to gazing offward.

The rain finally dies down. We pay our bill and we thank her profusely for an incredible meal. She sends us off with a to-go order of gnocchi just because. We insist that we don’t need all this food, but she tells us it won’t be a’fresh by the end of the day and she’ll just have to get rid of it.

She insists. We refuse. We both do the International Dance of Politeness, and we end up taking the gnocchi. But I insist on paying her for it.

On the way out the door, I pass the table with the votives. Although something has changed on the table. Now the table is set with a placemat, napkin, and silverware. And there is a steaming bowlful of gnocchi sitting squarely before the photograph of the young woman.

“Your daughter is bellísima,” I say, pointing to the photo.

The old woman’s eyes are bright and wet.

“Grazie,” she says.

“Prego,” says I.