No, I said. Out here. Can we sit out here?

He examined our party. His restaurant was nearly empty. “Sure!” he said with a smile. “You pay the bill? It’s no problem. Sit where you like.”

We were in. That is to say, out. We squeezed our parka-clad bodies into our seats and pulled our hats an inch or two above our eyelids. The warmth we had built up on the two-block walk from Canal Street began to seep away.

The girls yelled out the song from “Frozen” that goes “The cold doesn’t bother me anyway.” It was nice not to have to worry about our children annoying neighboring diners. There were no neighboring diners.

Bread came out, trailing steam. A waiter in a tightly zipped black coat, Alberto, read the specials. “The tricolore pasta is amazing,” he said. “Three different colors in one dish!”

Image An outdoor, and empty, table at Luna Ristorante. Credit... Bryan Thomas for The New York Times

Seven p.m. It was 23 degrees. We blew on our hands and awaited the first course.

Plates and bowls began to arrive. The maître d’, Vito, had recommended the seafood soup — mussels, clams, scungilli, lobster in the shell. Operating the achingly cold metal lobster cracker was difficult. Juice from the claw spurted onto my face. It felt nice. At the other end of the table, my wife, Fran, and her friend Ann, sharing a bowl of soup, struggled, too. “I’m going to use my fork,” Ann announced numbly, jabbing at the lobster tail.

“Use your hand,” Fran said. “It’ll take less energy.”

Ann plunged her hand into the soup bowl. “Look, Franny, the broth is warm!”