An italian restaurant called “Foppianos” opened like right behind my house. It is a hop and a skip away. A jump? Not necessary- it’s that close. I had dinner there earlier tonight, with my aunt and father.

Anyway, the food is awesome. It’s like… upscale Olive Garden. I got cheese ravioli, a dish I thought I would find you know… okay. It’s ravioli. You can get ravioli out of cans. School cafeterias, etc. This ravioli, however, was pretty much the most satisfying meal I’ve had in ages. It was so delicious. And I ended the meal with a piece of tiramisu cake. It’s one of those places where the waitress comes by with a platter of dessert “examples” that are not for eating. It’s the only time I’ve ever had tiramisu that wasn’t in dainty, tiny cube form. It was yummy.

The experience would have been sublime if not for the people screaming at the bar. You know, okay… I get it. You’re excited for football. But this isn’t really a sports bar. At all. Like… far from it. This place has yellow roses on every table and candles and all that ritzy junk. Go elsewhere to clap, scream and let out that shrill ear-splitting sports whistle. My family and I spent the entire night going ‘Huh? What?’ to each other.

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