Blech...

I had a horrible, expensive meal last night.

There's this place called Fiorito's down the street that postures itself as an Italian bistro. My dad and I both ordered pasta pomodoro, a classic Italian dish, noodles with tomatoes, basil, garlic and olive oil. It should be a plate buzzing with vibrant flavor and colors. Especially when you're charged twelve dollars for it.

Instead, it was gummy and incredibly bland. Why oh why, isn't there an Italian place in this city that has some notion of how to cook pasta? Overcooked pasta is inexcusable in general. At an overpriced bistro, it should actually be punishable by death. Or by people going someplace else to eat. Ahem.

In any case, defeated by the pasta, I decided to have some of my daughters' pizza, thinking, "how can you really mess up hot cheese?" By using old, too old, canned tomatoes, that's how. Ewww. Even the four year old wanted none of it.

To top it off, we ordered dessert for the kids. It took twenty (20) minutes for a bowl of vanilla ice cream to arrive at the table.

I'm not sure what was going on. But I know I'm not going to try and find out.