We had just arrived at Morandi last night when a pair of older, Sopranos-looking gentlemen sitting at the end of the bar got into a spat with some other patrons and stomped out. "You wanna start something with me?" the one with a pompadour snarled. "C'mon, Paulie, let's get outta here," his friend said, and they slammed their glasses down and stomped out. "Weird," our friend said, as we settled into their seats. "Do you think Keith McNally paid those guys to be here, like Tony n' Tina's Wedding?" But we were too distracted to ponder this possibility, because right then, at the other end of the bar, directly in our line of vision, was a face that over the past five months and five days we had come to know, and indeed, to love. "Look," we whispered to our friend. "It's The Captain."