My friend Silvio

Around eight o'clock last night, the prospect of having another Saltine cracker out of the lab stash lost all appeal and I found myself yearning for pizza.

The weather's been so nice here in Ann Arbor lately, I didn't have to think twice about it. Down the stairs, out the door, and onto my bike I went, pedaling in the direction of Central Campus.

I was on my way to Silvio's, my favorite place for Italian pie since it opened a couple of years ago. I go three or four times a week and probably drop more coin there than at any other place in town. Every night I know there's going to be a nice spread and I know that spread's going to have something I like.

On the bike I started picturing what might be on the spread tonight. Maybe the margherita -- with its thin wisps of fresh mozzarella and basil. Or the Siciliana -- a no-cheese pizza that still manages to bite you with the tang of its capers and anchovy. That hussy. Or maybe an arugula -- piled high with the mustard green the Romans practically worshiped along with a few shards of prosciutto and Romano. And if I was really lucky, there'd be a seafood pizza and I'd soon be looking at clams, shrimp, and tuna on a sea of tomato sauce and crushed garlic.

I swerved to miss a group of kids milling about on the sidewalk. Outta the way! Comin' through!

When I finally got to Silvio's, I ran into disappointment itself: The doors were shut and a sign in front said "Closed for private party". On the other side of the glass, two dozen people were sitting, laughing, eating. My stomach complained.

Behind the counter and through the order window, I saw Silvio. He saw me, and I shrugged my shoulders.

But then he did something I won't soon forget: He waved me to the back. I opened the door, slipped past the party people, and proceeded behind the counter and through the swinging shutters into the kitchen.

Silvio Medoro is a big guy from the old country with a broad grin and thick fingers. He's got a talent for making great pizza and the patience to do it everyday for twelve hours. It didn't take long for us to become friends, and on more than a few occasions I've sat down with him, talked family or Italy or anything else that might have struck us on a slow night, and stayed long after I finished my usual two or three slices. One night I even delivered pizza for him -- okay, it was just for an hour, but his wife was sick and the man wanted to get home to see her. How can you argue with that?

In the kitchen Silvio asked if I wanted something to eat. I said yes, and he asked what I wanted as he lifted the lids on three stacked pizza boxes sitting on the counter, one after another. In the second box I saw something I was hoping for: margherita. He asked how many slices I wanted -- two? three? -- and I said two was fine. He scooped out two slices and slid them into the oven.

I'm not exactly sure what I was feeling at that moment but as close as I can tell, it was a mix of gratitude and utter cool. I've been back here before -- that hour I delivered pizza for Silvio -- but somehow this time seemed different. It's like I was sitting in his house. I offered to pay -- I knew two slices of margherita cost about four bucks -- but he turned me down.

Silvio took the two slices out of the oven and handed them to me on a paper plate. I took a seat on a wooden box and started eating. Silvio leaned up against a sink, thought for a moment, then started telling me the news of the day: The air conditioner had broken, and the guy who usually fixed it wasn't answering his phone. In fact, the phone number seemed to redirect to an automated message from the phone company. Had I ever heard of such a thing? He dialed the number and had me listen to the message.

Suddenly Silvio remembered he had people out front and disappeared to check on them. When he came back, he was holding two paper cups. He walked over and handed one to me. Red wine. Grazie, I said. He replied, Salute. It's about as beautiful a moment as two grown men can share.

The last surprise of the night was seeing Silvio's wife. She walked in from the front -- either I'd missed her earlier or she'd just arrived -- and I took a moment to look at her. I knew she'd been in and out of the hospital recently, but that night she looked as vivacious as I remember her: Her dark eyes were flashing against her auburn skin, she was smiling, and she was flitting from one corner of the kitchen to the other.

I asked how she was doing, and she said fine. I asked if she was still doing the desserts, and she said yes, everything in front. Then she walked over to a counter-top, and a tray covered in something baked and golden came out of nowhere -- a cake made with farm cheese, she informed me. She pointed to another tray sitting on the stove -- that one's ricotta cheese, she said, a little sweeter than the farm cheese.

Knife out, she began slicing up one cake then the other. She asked if I'd like a piece, and I answered yes. She turned around and handed me a slice of ricotta cake as big as a paperback book. Grazie, I said again. She replied, Prego. Seeing that Silvio's disappeared out front again, I began gathering my things to say goodbye and leave.

As I walked out after the final ciao, cake in hand, I had one thought left: how fortunate I was to know these people.