Slow, windy little tubules of pasta. Dainty little things, squirming beneath a steaming mound of molten ragoût. And perching on the pinnacle, a few scant shavings of Parmesan cheese. The fresh kind—shredded strands of aged yumminess, not the pustuled grains of artificial salt with cheese flavor. Flaking the hand-painted bowl where my pasta sat, was a six-ounce glass of rich, mahogany wine. The aroma alone did me in; wafting above the steam of my plate, it secured temptations completely. The entire meal was thoroughly irresistible.
This is a write-up for Anthony’s Pizza and Pasta. Or would be, if we included them in our esteemed magazine. How would anyone know? You might assume it to be a culinarily-enhanced romance novel, or perhaps a tongue-in-cheek press release for Chuck-E-Cheese. But no. Do they even have bowls at Anthony’s? Isn’t everything made out of Styrofoam and paper? I don’t honestly know. I haven’t eaten there that often. The deep dish pizza was mediocre to edible the one time I went (on a backwards-sliding scale) and the pasta was, well, a heap of smooshy noodles with globules of pesto thrown in—more for decoration than for flavor. Harsh? Perhaps. It’s a chain. They’re more about pizza. But if it’s in the name, it should be part of what you’re good at. I would imagine.
This all goes to the point: Don’t believe everything you read. Just what I have written. Like this, for example. My only concern is that months writing syrupy drivel for restaurants not worth a mention in mailing coupons might eventually lead me to eternal optimism and artificial excitement in everything I write. Can you imagine me writing a treatise on Luther? “He was gay, full of smiles, and he wore bright, shiny things that made his hair ‘pop’.” No. I think I should divorce myself from this business. Something untruthful practiced so many time makes you question the truth. And I’m damned if I end up in that boat. Maybe even literally.