Exactly one month before the executives of our firm sent out an email ordering us to work from home until further notice, my colleagues-turned-friends treated me to lunch at Il Corvo to celebrate my birthday. Il Corvo was our favorite choice when we had the time to wait in line, and sometimes even when we didn’t. We were shocked and thrilled to find the line contained within the restaurant when we arrived that day, since we’d grown accustomed to long waits on the sidewalk as it trailed from inside the long and narrow space. We remembered the time we happily waited over an hour before we could finally order the dish we’d already decided on before arriving. (Il Corvo would post their daily offerings every morning on a blog, before moving over to Instagram to do the same.)

Most lunch spots in the downtown core of Seattle exist for the purpose of hurriedly grabbing a bite to aid in powering through the rest of the workday. But Il Corvo was different. First timers could be identified by their nervous expressions while hovering over the tables flanking the walkway where the line queued; their eyes breaking away from the chalkboard menu to scan the tables full of guests. You knew they were wondering if they would fit in somewhere. Regulars knew there was nothing to worry about, of course. The folks running the show never failed to secure you a spot among the masses.

And the best way to savor the pasta made fresh every morning was among the masses. Elbow-to-elbow with your colleagues, friends, or even strangers amid the organization veiled as chaos. Whether assigned to sit on the long wooden bench resembling a church pew or at the large high-top marble table reserved for solo diners, all patrons could count on sinking their teeth into firm but springy gluten goodness paired with a sauce containing the perfect blend of salt, fat, acid, and heat. If everything I ever sampled at Il Corvo could be described in one word, it would be “bright”. Not often a word associated with a plate full of carbs.

And every time we arrived as a group, we couldn’t quite limit ourselves to just the pasta, either. We knew this would be a long and relaxed lunch break spent together, so why not order the house focaccia to share? Or the marinated olives? A bottle of wine! We’d share antipasti while we talked and laughed about anything other than work. We’d sneak bites from each other’s plates of pasta when we didn’t feel so nervous about spreading germs. Savoring the food was a must, but savoring the time together was paramount.

Obviously, food is a necessary to our survival, but we all know it’s more than something physical. Food represents celebrations, comfort, culture, and community. More than Il Corvo being the best pasta in the city, it represented colleagues-turned-friends breaking from the stress and frustration of work to bond. It represented the rarity of Seattleites dropping their notoriously cold and distant behaviors to squeeze in next to a stranger to enjoy the same meal. It represented one of the last true charms of Seattle you could share with your friends and family from out of town.

No one knew what was coming. And while it makes logical sense that small businesses would struggle to survive in a time like this, you never imagine the institutions of your city to fall. There’s more to losing Il Corvo than losing really incredible pasta (in fact, you can still get James Beard award winner Mike Easton’s pasta in West Seattle if you want to make the drive without the convenience of the bridge), it’s about losing something so special to a community who has lived and worked in the area for years. It’s losing a beacon of familiarity and comfort for when we do finally bounce back from this and enjoy our time together again.

Had I known my latest visit to Il Corvo would be my last, I would have savored the pasta and the experience just a little longer.