Roundy’s pasta

I rarely eat pasta. I love it almost more than anything else but it’s just plain flat out carbs. When I look at it, I have a mixture of longing, dread and sadness. There are a number of foods that cause a similar mix of emotions in me: ice cream, bread, pizza. While I certainly eat these things occasionally, for the most part I my eating habits exclude the glutenous, as well the carbohydratous.

But when I do eat these things I try to make sure it’s worth it. This was not. I made some bolognese, the best sauce in the world as far as I’m concerned, and for this particular occasion I was going to have pasta, lots of times I eat the sauce like chili. In my pantry, which is really the closet in my second bedroom, I had a box of Roundy’s rigatoni. When I picked it up I had a bad feeling.

Not one noodle stayed intact. I ate it, I’ll eat most anything. But I will never ever buy any Roundy’s brand pasta again.

Having said that, I’d buy it before I’d buy any Barilla brand pasta. The homophobic fucks. Used to be my go to brand but, well, they don’t like the gays and this gay doesn’t like them.

The Grand Tour, Food

I’d have to say that for the most part the food I’ve eaten in Europe, well, in the US, too, with the exception of Three Letters, hasn’t been so much. Lots of pizza in Italy. I haven’t really kept up with the stuff I eat mainly because there hasn’t been much to say about it for the most part, and of course, there were the 4 lost days of nausea. And I will get back to some of the high points later but here’s a sort of lame overview of meals in Europe.

There was a nice-ish radicchio risotto in Rome. Ashish ate quite a lot of raw beef (ugh). I had a number of bolognese meals. I love bolognese, Karen and I share in its joys, but my own is better than anything I ate in Italy. There was a lackluster carbonara while we sat next to some overly made-up, pouty sisters who were taking selfies all night while their indulgent grandfather (I hope) watched smiling smoking a cigar (shoot me). I had a couple three meatballs that were nothing to write home about (to be fair, and I am all about fairness, I wasn’t quite on top of my eating game at that point). There was the salad with goat cheese toasts minutes before the eaten credit card drama.

When it was Peter’s turn to select a luncheon venue in Venice we went with the cafeteria option that wasn’t so much my fave but apparently made him feel at home which got me to wondering about my sister’s cooking. I had a pretty good tuna and caper pasta lunch somewhere on some canal or other. There were some mediocre keftedes, mine are infinitely better. And there was a curried chicken salad that I should have fed to the pigeons. There are enough of the goddam things fluttering all around.

Bolognese report B.

Another Il Mito is newly located in my neighborhood. I like the one on North avenue but that is a bit of a hike. This one, while close and easily walkable in the summer, is in an neighborhood in which it is nearly impossible to find parking. It’s in the old Sally’s, a place I loved, and it’s not without its charm.

The food, well, I like my bolognese. But not with chunks of fennel in it (there should not be fennel in bolognese) and it was a too oleaginous. But it was certainly edible. And having had it there, I am now free to try other things since Il Mito’s bolognese is not going to be on my must-have list.

And they really ought to coordinate their wine glass sizes. I mean. Really? They looked like Laurel and Hardy.