Once in a while my sisters and I go for dinner; for simple reasons, like them getting away from their husbands and children or to gossip about our mother without the fear of being digitally monitored and out of the three-mile radius of her all-hearing “momdar”. So basically a girls night out where I watch them pound a trough of pinot grigio and I do all the ordering. We recently went to a local Greek spot in NDG that has been a part of the neighbourhood for the longest time. Perched on top of Mount Monkland, Lezvos is the poorman’s Santorini; replacing the picturesque white sovas houses overlooking the deep indigo Agean sea, the vantage point from Lezvos is of the rolling red tail lights of north-bound Decarie traffic and the laughter of children being taxed at Villa-Marie Metro.
Tag:
salad
Feeling like I’ve just swallowed a starch bomb that will just tick away at my waking consciousness for the rest of the afternoon before I succumb to an afternoon droolfest or fighting off the cobwebs struggling to stay awake after lunch is something I’ve come way too accustomed too. Praying for someone to roll me to my car or asking myself why I’m out of breath is a common occurrence for me after my midday feeding and is something I’m trying to learn to avoid. Being said, when was the last time you had lunch that was filling, satisfying, healthy, but also left you energized and feeling pretty as fuck?
So what’s your pasta style? Are you a straight up tomato sauce kind of person? Meat sauce? Alfredo? Salad? Or are you like me and like your pasta in a red sauce, but the next day in a sandwich with cold cuts? Strange right? But try it, and you can thank me later! I ask because recently I almost forgot what it was like to eat good pasta. Wait stop, I mean, GOOD pasta – the type of pasta where when you eat it, you’re convinced that the restaurant or chef has some sort of secret supply of pasta. You believe that it’s next to impossible to get pasta like that at home unless you flour up the kitchen, make a mess and make your own; and even then enough of it will stick to everything and your whole process won’t yield more than a biteful… Don’t ask me how I know.
You know that feeling when your nonna gives you a great big hug, then slobbers a smackeroonie on each cheek, her moustache pokes and tickles your face, then she tells you to go get something to eat in the kitchen? No? Not Italian? Neither am I, but I can imagine it. However, the closest thing I can get to this warm fuzzy feeling it is hitting up one of my favourite spots on the edge of Littally (Little Itally – get it? I’m so funny) called Tre Marie.