A kick to my Italian head

Jeff and I went to Bucca di Beppo last night. Somehow we’ve begun to take a perverse delight in chain restaurants. For example, Chili’s. I think our delight stems from some combination of irony and nostalgia. Plus a huge desire for menu items named things like “Quesadilla Explosion.” Anyways, at Bucca (my own affectionate nickname for it) I thought about two things.

1) I remembered the only other time I’d been there, with the staff of the Daily Northwestern, when I was too young and intimidated to say more than three words.

2) The bajillions of photos on the walls most prominently feature, as Jeff put it, “pets, children, boobs and wang.”

In other Bucca news, Jeff was complimented twice by separate waiters on his Saddle Creek Records t-shirt, and we ordered so much food that I will be eating Macaroni Rosa for the next five days.

An additional Italian update: Becca and I ventured to the Bridgeport neighborhood to pick up a package at DHL, and ended up at 31st & Halsted for some awesome Italian ice. Becca got the watermelon flavor, and it had real pieces of watermelon (and a couple of seeds) actually in it. My lemon ice was dreamy.

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