Decadence

To celebrate our anniversary, my spouse and I went out last evening to our favorite restaurant, a place not far that does rustic Italian food–simple dishes cooked well.

Really, really well. 

I'm not going to tell you the name of the place, which does a nice business, so as not to make it harder to get a table. If you really want to know, you can figure it out. (If you add a comment with the name in it to show me you did it, I'll delete it. My restaurant. Mine, mine, mine!)

The special was grilled duck breast on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes, with a a sauce that included Basalmic vinegar and figs, plus cooked kale. They had me at " ... grilled duck breast ..."

I can't begin to tell you how good it was. I would have picked the plate up to lick it, save that I used the last of the bread to wipe it clean enough it didn't look like it needed to be washed. Waitress said, "That's what the chef likes to see come back ..."

My wife had a homemade pasta dish with squash, also outstanding

We split a dessert–Tiramasu. In this case, it was lady finger cookies soaked in rum, covered in whipped cream and mascarpone and topped with grated chocolate. I had a glass of the fifteen-year-old tawny port to wash it down ...

So much for my healthy diet.

We don't eat this way often. Couldn't afford it, either in money or expanding waistlines and clogged arteries, but O my! Now and then such an indulgence is an absolute joy.

We stopped by the kitchen on the way out, gave the cooks a round of applause, and raved about the meal. Nice to see the chef smile.