Bocca della Verita

I spent my 60th birthday in Paris with my sisters, some of their husbands, my friends Terry and Michael and our Parisianne resident friend Evelyne at an Italian restaurant. OK, I knew it was not French but It was across the street from the apartment I was staying in at the time. The food was great, the service perfect and I could walk home easily.

Ashish and I had dinner there Saturday night. It, too, was completely booked, turning away people. We were squeezed in a corner. We could barely fit our food on the table. Aside from that the only real issue I had was that they all speak English so well there was no need to speak French. That always bums me out. Oh sure, they’ll be happy to speak French to you but it seems silly when their English is a million times better than my French. (And they are all Italian anyway.)

Ashish ordered burrata, a young rolled mozzarella with olive tapenade. It was exquisite. I ordered various grilled vegetables spread vaguely around on my plate, I forget the Italian name. It wasn’t bad but it was no burrata. I hate to always be the grass is always greener person, but really. Which plate looks better?? 

His main course was some pasta I never heard of lusciously covered with truffles, cream and prosciutto. Mine was gnocchi in tomato sauce. Again. Grass….greener….where?