For our fourteenth anniversary, ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rushthatspeaks and I ate at a restaurant.
The last time we had eaten at a restaurant was four and a half years ago, not so many days before the airborne equations of viral transmission turned my acceptance of his proposal into a cholera wedding. But we had heard that SRV, the only Venetian-style bacaro in Boston, for four years running our traditional anniversary restaurant, had established a patio for open-air dining and they sounded receptive to our high-risk questions and we made a reservation for dinner as they opened tonight. The outdoor element was dependent on the weather. It was brilliantly late summer all day. I left the house in shirtsleeves which I immediately rolled up.
It's a lovely patio. Since it is located at the back of the restaurant, the brick of the surrounding buildings goes up on three sides with the iron ornamentation of fire escapes and sky-catching windows and the tops of trees visible with the sunlight slanting in, like the most industrially elegant airshaft. Sitting with plenty of space between ourselves and the other diners—who seemed to want the same kind of space—we had a wonderful time. The best thing about the food designed and served by the genius kitchen at SRV is that not only is it decadently delicious, it can be thought about for additional enjoyment, so we marveled over the fluffiness of the slips of fried eggplant and the sheer melting decadence of a duck mousse truffle and the unaltered bar snack perfection of the polpette in red sauce, the carrots of all colors charred savorily on their bed of ricotta and the tuna crudo served under an unsmothering kind of yogurt with tomato gelée, the calamari which were as spicily tender as their pepper-flecked lumache and the fun of serving rustically torn sheets of pasta dressed with the ostentatious velvet of duck. I do not traditionally like martinis, but I ordered theirs because of its additional ingredients and between the kombu-infused vermouth and the sprig of house-brined asparagus skewered like an olive it tasted like the slap of a wave turned into vodka. Rush-That-Speaks chose the Il Mio Bel, an unstickily floral rose-and-violet flip. For dessert they brought us an anniversary semifreddo alongside the peach tart crowned with translucent sunset-colored fins of peach-juice and black sesame and the green drizzle of basil oil which did not jar and we shared their house-made limoncello, which fulfilled its purpose by tasting like twenty tons of citrus-flavored TNT.
Their manager parked the car for us, almost directly in front of the restaurant. Rush had said that in order to find street parking in South Boston, we would need an angel to descend from the heavens with a flaming sword. She had sleeve tattoos and was the owner of the truck we were trying to parallel-park behind. We expressed profound gratitude.
We would have spent more time at Castle Island if I had not managed to leave my credit card at the restaurant, but at least we caught the salt of the air and the crinkle of the half-moon in gold on the black curve of water before we had to retrieve the card, effect a car-swap, and collapse for a couple of hours on my couch before we both ran out of steam. I have a jar of Apicius spice blend which I will need to find a suitably Roman recipe to try out on and Rush has Mei Mei's Double Awesome Chinese Food (2019), which preserves all the recipes from the days before the restaurant became a dumpling factory.
My sea-wedded husband, so many years more.
rushthatspeaks and I ate at a restaurant.The last time we had eaten at a restaurant was four and a half years ago, not so many days before the airborne equations of viral transmission turned my acceptance of his proposal into a cholera wedding. But we had heard that SRV, the only Venetian-style bacaro in Boston, for four years running our traditional anniversary restaurant, had established a patio for open-air dining and they sounded receptive to our high-risk questions and we made a reservation for dinner as they opened tonight. The outdoor element was dependent on the weather. It was brilliantly late summer all day. I left the house in shirtsleeves which I immediately rolled up.
It's a lovely patio. Since it is located at the back of the restaurant, the brick of the surrounding buildings goes up on three sides with the iron ornamentation of fire escapes and sky-catching windows and the tops of trees visible with the sunlight slanting in, like the most industrially elegant airshaft. Sitting with plenty of space between ourselves and the other diners—who seemed to want the same kind of space—we had a wonderful time. The best thing about the food designed and served by the genius kitchen at SRV is that not only is it decadently delicious, it can be thought about for additional enjoyment, so we marveled over the fluffiness of the slips of fried eggplant and the sheer melting decadence of a duck mousse truffle and the unaltered bar snack perfection of the polpette in red sauce, the carrots of all colors charred savorily on their bed of ricotta and the tuna crudo served under an unsmothering kind of yogurt with tomato gelée, the calamari which were as spicily tender as their pepper-flecked lumache and the fun of serving rustically torn sheets of pasta dressed with the ostentatious velvet of duck. I do not traditionally like martinis, but I ordered theirs because of its additional ingredients and between the kombu-infused vermouth and the sprig of house-brined asparagus skewered like an olive it tasted like the slap of a wave turned into vodka. Rush-That-Speaks chose the Il Mio Bel, an unstickily floral rose-and-violet flip. For dessert they brought us an anniversary semifreddo alongside the peach tart crowned with translucent sunset-colored fins of peach-juice and black sesame and the green drizzle of basil oil which did not jar and we shared their house-made limoncello, which fulfilled its purpose by tasting like twenty tons of citrus-flavored TNT.
Their manager parked the car for us, almost directly in front of the restaurant. Rush had said that in order to find street parking in South Boston, we would need an angel to descend from the heavens with a flaming sword. She had sleeve tattoos and was the owner of the truck we were trying to parallel-park behind. We expressed profound gratitude.
We would have spent more time at Castle Island if I had not managed to leave my credit card at the restaurant, but at least we caught the salt of the air and the crinkle of the half-moon in gold on the black curve of water before we had to retrieve the card, effect a car-swap, and collapse for a couple of hours on my couch before we both ran out of steam. I have a jar of Apicius spice blend which I will need to find a suitably Roman recipe to try out on and Rush has Mei Mei's Double Awesome Chinese Food (2019), which preserves all the recipes from the days before the restaurant became a dumpling factory.
My sea-wedded husband, so many years more.
