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on guilt.

12 Apr 2012

Mark and I were feeling very, very bad about possibly going to Bar Corvo for a third Sunday in a row without having visiting Frankies in the meanwhile.  Very bad.  So, taking advantage of a relatively temperate, only a wee bit breezy, Sunday this past weekend, we headed back to Frankies for an early dinner, opting to sit outside to take in the late afternoon light and hoping that nobody had noticed our absence.   We ordered our usual meal — though we got the arugula + mozza salad this time instead of the octopus + dandelion greens — and gleefully scarfed down the antipasto plate, down to the last roasted beet, and devoured the cavatelli, as we always do.  Bar Corvo?  No idea what you’re talking about. 

[NB: The two carafes of wine we shared quite successfully managed to dull the gnawing sense of guilt we had.  Momentarily, anyway.]

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