Camille's: Va-Hi Red Sauce Sundays

Lyrics

North Highland Avenue, November, nineteen ninety-eight.
We were always running a little late.
You’d pull the heavy wooden door, the bell would give a little chime.
The room smelled like garlic, and red wine, and time.
The host would smile, he knew our name.
A French chef, Jean-Pierre, playing an Italian game.
He named the place for his daughter, Camille.
Something about that felt so real.
And we just kept coming back.

Red sauce on the white tablecloth.
A little spill of Chianti, like ruby velvet cloth.
The low clink of silver, the murmur in the glass.
Some good things are built too beautifully to last.
But that was love, you know. That was more than enough.

I see the little candle dripping wax onto the foil.
The Chicken Florentine, the bubbling olive oil.
Robert Holley would nod from across the floor.
He saw we were in love, you never had to ask for more.
The bread was always warm, the butter was perfectly cold.
We were living a story that was already old.
We’d talk for hours, just tracing patterns on the steam.
Living out somebody else’s Roman dream.

Red sauce on the white tablecloth.
A little spill of Chianti, like ruby velvet cloth.
The low clink of silver, the murmur in the glass.
Some good things are built too beautifully to last.
But that was love, you know. That was more than enough.

Seventeen years is a lifetime for a room on a busy street.
A little shield against the bitter and the sweet.
A French heart cooking Italian for a Georgia night.
Everything felt possible under that soft, forgiving light.
Now 1186 is just a number on a door.
Doesn't echo with our laughter anymore.

And the tiramisu…
Left a little coffee-colored map on the white plate.
It was getting late.
It was always getting late.