Brad Pitt and a Priest walk into a bar ….
Just kidding.
Sort of.
Brad Pitt and I went to a new (to us) Italian restaurant a couple weeks ago that came highly recommended by some also-new friends. We stuffed ourselves silly with garlic knots, salad, pesto and Pasta al Forno dishes and reveled in the fact the owner had a stereotypical Jersey-Italian demeanor as he walked around the restaurant, gruffly ordering family members to bring us bread, checking on us and then hollering back to the kitchen “Hey, gimme summa that 7up, I gotta stomach ache!”
It wasn’t the thick Jersey-Italian accents or mannerisms that confirmed we were in a genuine Italian hole-in-the-wall restaurant. It was the priest who casually took a seat in a neighboring booth.
Our conversation stopped, Brad Pitt looked at me and, under his breath, said “Okay, this place must be legit if the priests are eating here, too.” Maybe it was the wine induced logic, but I completely agreed with him. And then we had to watch our mouths through the remainder of our dinner conversations, for fear of dropping an unacceptable F-bomb in front of this man of the cloth.
At the end of the meal, despite our delightfully full bellies, we couldn’t resist ordering a small dessert.
I doubt the sheer presence of Padre Pasta had anything to do with it, but Holy Cannoli, it was divine.
PigTales 