five star Italian

A valet parked and retrieved our cars. Our table had a grand total of four waiters assigned to silently glide around it. No pizza was on the menu, which was in Italian. When the food arrived it was covered with silver cloches, which were removed from our plates with a dramatic flourish... I'm thinking it was real silver because they used gloves. Utensils came. Utensils went. They even provided me with a finger bowl to tidy my fingers should the sauce on my partridges and strawberry risotto have sullied them.

Despite the novelty of exaggerated refinement, my favorite Italian dinning experience was in Spain at some hole in the wall where the patrons at one table were charged with flipping a breaker switch because the lights kept going out. I will never forget the aroma that drew droves of patrons every night... or the food when it came. That plate of hot carbs, cheese and spices kicked my partridges' little feathery asses.

It was joked recently that I like poverty... I prefer to think I'm increasingly coming to value good company and good food (wherever I find them) over massaging an idea of myself as a priveledged member of society.