Arrabbiata Means Angry (And Your Digestive Tract Will Be Later)
Last night, keith, erik, vivien, mooneer, liz, danny, djc, jackie, glen, kenton, jessi, and I went to Buca di Beppo. It’s a family style Italian restaurant: huge portions (splitting is not optional) of tomatoey pastay sausagey goodness. We had, as best I can remember:
- Fried calamari
- Salmon with pesto and sundried tomatoes
- Rosemary chicken
- Quattro al Forno (sampling of four baked pastas)
- Penne Arrabbiata
- Bread
- Tiramisu (to die for)
My one complaint of the entire evening: there was neither oil/vinegar nor butter for the bread. That’s just plain silly.