Alex D.
Yelp
saturday night. time's a ticking and I'm down at woodbine race track for a bit of horse betting. I plop myself on the benches and find a copy of this bougie piece of spectacle called da toronto life. you ever read this rag? marone! between "look at this house my parents bought me for $1 million" and "top 10 tarts in tinseltown toronto", you wanna be sick. but I find an article that speaks to big fat ol Alex: best bowls of pasta in the city. this I had to read because my life is pasta and pudore, u know what I mean? that's just da way it is. I don't make the rules.
so I see this joint on that list. now look, I let my eyes do my work for me. most of the pictures that toronto life took of these plates of pasta nearly made me throw up. not lying to you. oretta's canestri's green pasta looked like Slimer from Ghostbusters threw up. Sugo's looked like a plate you'd order from east side Marios, you know what I mean? now look. I don't expect some Gentiles from Toronto to know pasta. But the Cacio at Vendetta looked dece enough, so I rolled down there the next night.
I roll down dun-oss. man, I remember when this hood was a bunch of tugas and eye-tals like myself. now it's a whole new circus. clowns type. but godda*mn if covid's tight grip around most of these joints didn't near kill em. so god bless the ringling ones that pushed through that dante eternal.
I sit down to nice table, candle, music, dark enough to hide my double chin. you know the deal. I order the cacio, I order the spaghetti, nice glass of vino to guzzle down before the olives arrive. my horse won last night so why not? now look, they do their pasta right. al dente. people complaining about it being "tough," dont make me pop your teeth out. we'll see how tough that pasta is when u can't chew. al dente is the only way. you want slimey over-cooked pasta, go home and boil some Mac and cheese, ya grunt. this ain't Kraft and Ossington.
pasta was good. wine was good. a bit too fancy for uncle alexandro but it'll do pig. couple too many cool album covers on the wall. I wanna see their nonnas up there, not shoo moo and the dungarees latest platinum hit. but what do I know? I'm old school.
after a night of drinking and gambling, I order a coffee.. no coffee I'm told? Wha? is this place Italian or u guys just tricking me? If it's a trick, then ya ain't exactly harry Houdini because, my friends, you'll know an Italian joint will always serve a hot espresso after all that heavy pasta. you kidding me? no coffee? then can I do a line in your bathroom?
No but seriously, if I went to a italian resto in my hometown in NY and they didn't have a cup of black, they'd be CLOSED ...permanently. not because covid killed everyone workin there, but because the fat f***s lining their red checkered tables would be lighting that mother***** on fire and usin the charred bricks to heat their French presses. no lie, it happened to my buddy Charlie's in 83. the rats in the city used the embers of the joint to cook up some macchiatos. he charged $2 a cup. I was s***ing concrete for a couple weeks, but it was the best macchiato in town.
anyway, where was I. food? good. wine? Dece. Music? it ain't sinatra, but it'll do for the younger crowds tryin to impress those imps on "d-west". Coffee? non existent. like my brother Frankie in the 90s. showed up on thanksgiving if we were lucky. but that's another story.