I struggle to start writing about La Locanda, not because I disliked it (I loved it), not because of writer’s block, but because after half a bottle of merlot and two shots of Grappa (because we “did it wrong” the first time), my sense of discretion begins to be replaced by my pretension. So forgive the lack of tact in the following sentence.
I hate Italian food.
But wait, because I love Italian food in equal measure. Let me explain. My theory, borrowed from Woody Allen’s proclamation about teaching (“Those who can’t do, teach. And those who can’t teach, teach gym.”), is that those who can’t cook, cook pasta. Seriously, think of the friend that is least competent (try as they might) (bless their heart) in the kitchen. You got it? What do they ALWAYS prepare? Pasta. And it comes topped with some sauce that came out of a can. And the noodles were probably done and sitting on the table before the sauce was even heated so it’s just mushy noodles with a salsa that doesn’t stick. And that overzealous dollop of cheese on top isn’t masking anything. And it’s like this Every. Damn. Time. And what did pasta ever do to them? Huh? Nonnas round the world roll in their graves. Ok, calm down. My sincerest apologies to all you out there that can make a mean ragu.
