 Da Pasquale
Seems like every Monday night, I ask my kids what they want for dinner, and they all start jumping up and down, chanting "Da Pasquale! Da Pasquale! Da Pasquale!" I don't fault 'em—Da Pasquale is the homiest Italian joint in Beverly Hills, serving up exquisite versions of all the classics in a warm, inviting atmosphere with no trace of pretentiousness, and at a surprisingly uninflated price point. What's not to love?
Well, for one thing, they're closed Mondays. For another, I don't have kids. Those are just the voices of my tastebuds, stomach, and superego chanting in unison. Why my superego? Because I love dropping into this place during dinner servce to pick up my takeout. This seems to genuinely offend a fair percentage of the folks dining in, since it's such a charming and special place to eat. It probably doesn't help matters that I usually show up in my pajamas, and my penis always pops out of my pajamas.
Now, recently I've become a bit of a home bolognese specialist, to the point where Sylvester Stallone routinely drops by to see if I have any left over in the fridge. Motherfucker knows his 'nese, that's for sure! But when I don't feel like putting 3+ hours into a meat sauce, I'll get the bolognese from Da Pasquale, which only takes them about 15 minutes and is almost as good. It's like how I always cut my own hair, but if I'm not in the mood, I only let Jonathan Antin do it. The wife is partial to the margherita pizza and Caesar salad, both of which are perfectly executed here. And then there's the complimentary bread—hooooly moley! This bread, this bread! Warm, scratch-made, almost discus-sized disks of pure fuckin' bread-manna, this bread. Oh shit, I just realized I do have kids, and I just ate all the Da Pasquale without giving them nary a scrap! Oh well, they can have some of my leftover bolognese in the morning. Oh no, I gave the last of it to Stallone! Do you think children can eat Cesar's dog food, or is that just for poor children?
Review by B.J. Plunderbottom, May 2012 |
