Mi dispiace

Yesterday, first born and I left our pleasant little town, and went the 40-50 miles to another pleasant little town where the birthday girl (she's still Daddy's little girl) works, and went to lunch at one of the three restaurants the locals recommend. It was supposed to be "Italian."

Wednesday at lunch, and the place was quite busy. Most of the patrons were older men, some accompanied by female companions who were old enough to be their wives. I would opine that they were affluent farmers of rice, the local crop of choice. What recession?

After consuming tiny salads, my companions enjoyed their entrees. My salad was larger, and featured one. . . count it, one grape tomato, which was one more than both of theirs. The bread was "sourdough," cold, dry and tasteless. I had the spaghetti ($7.95) and meatballs. . . count 'em, two ($3.50). Had I been asked my opinion of it, I would have responded, "I've been to Italy."

I have decided that if I don't suffer through some mediocre spaghetti, I will never find some that, at least, matches that which I enjoyed at Mel's Bowl in Alameda in the '70s. I have long since despaired of finding the real Milanese sauce I ate in 1960.