As we polished off our appetizers (and I say ‘we’ because I refuse to stand alone in the glutton’s corner), the unmistakable scent of something on the grill was hard to ignore.

Shortly thereafter, another feast-on-a-plate was brought to the table.

Sorry again about the out-of-focus mashed potatoes there in front. (Oh, and by the way, that foil-wrapped ball behind it was an entire roasted garlic that was begging to be spread on just about everything on the plate.)

What? You wanted a closer look at all those delicious friends of the perfectly-seasoned-with-the-slightest-hint-of-smokiness steak?

Ah. That pasta. The delicate taste of butter and herbs and cheese and … and … hmmm. What are those black things sitting on top of it?

Let’s take a closer look, shall we?

Friends, I’d just like to take this opportunity to say that, before that night, the only place I remember ever having shaved black truffles was Danube in New York City. And they were a lot stingier than Boy was.

I think it was after my first bite of the steak, followed by some pasta, that I decided that, when I grow up, I want to be a Boy.

I kid, I kid. I know I can’t get away with that ‘when I grow up’ line anymore. Especially since I’m obviously old enough to have these.

Next up, dessert! And the mandatory photo of the chef. So you can pester him for a home-cooked meal if you see him on the street. Or underwater.

Did I mention that I once saw him take a nap while diving? It’s true. There he was, floating close to the bottom, standing very still with his arms crossed and his head bowed. At first I thought he was watching something, until my cousin motioned that he was asleep.

I wonder if that means I can add ‘stuntman’ to Boy’s list of qualifications.