Piccolo Angolo, redux

I haven't been back to Piccolo in at least five years. More than that, I hadn't been there regularly since 1999, but it was--like so many other things on this visit--like coming home. Renato gave me that look that said I know you, but I don't remember your name. And even though they were supposed to be full for the night, he managed to swing a table for us. His daughter took care of Anna with a plate of penne after the goat cheese ravioli proved to be a miss. (I've begun to hate the weird shifts in taste that come with this age.) The house red, which he used to make, was just as basic and easy-drinking as always. They capped the meal off with a chocolate gelato bomb for Anna (and the rest of us).

In the end, I stopped back and said hello to Peter, Renato's son and a pool-playing buddy from years back. He took one look and said, "Holy shit. Now I remember you."

Good times.