Al Centro

Perhaps it was the chilly draft of air invading the dining area that infringed upon my dining comfort. Perhaps it was the shitty music they were playing that reminded me of every white-​person wedding I’ve attended where the couple really didn’t love each other so settled for some song they heard in Tim Hortons to dance to. Perhaps it was that the wine was either over-​aired, or brand spanking new from a server who doesn’t know wine very well. Perhaps it was that the fire place had been removed and now some dorky looking kid was making pizza in that spot.
Ok, I’m done. That was my first impression. Cold draft, bad music, poor wine and lacking fond memories.
That said, our server was cute and courteous, although somewhat inept with the aforementioned wine. I lost the attention of one of my mates to her «pants» several times over the course of the evening. I don’t blame him.
She then brought out an italian loaf for us at my request. My stomach was eating itself and putting wine into an empty belly is not always a good idea. I fearfully ordered a spicy shrimp pasta dish, only to be notified that they were out of spaghetti, and the chef suggested penne as a sub. FINE. I was really scared now. There was one chef, one server. Out of spaghetti. Wine was old. Only one other couple in the place. Saturday night! DOWNTOWN! DINNER TIME!!!
I was preparing myself for a horrible mess of laziness, sauces beyond expiry, and rotting pasta. What she brought me was a delightfully spicy dish, with large shrimp, a nice vodka tomato sauce, and nice large fresh hunks of garlic. The further I got in, the faster I ate. The portion was filling, to the point of hurting me. Simply delicious. With a tear in my eye, I put down the last few noodles, and swore to never judge a book by its cover again.