It’s tucked in a corner of Village Market for a reason. I don’t know the reason, and neither will you. But it’s intimate. It’s like getting into Little Italy, of sorts. Little Italy without many Italians, albeit.
And because I’m a child at heart, because I can’t seem to grow up to my full adult potential, I absolutely love that their tables are covered with checked tablecloths. It feels like we are all playing house all over again, and Taffy, my childhood crush, won’t reject me this time.
I’ve been to La Casa Di Nico Ristorante a few times. The latest was with a friend who was treating me to a belated birthday lunch.
We sat at a corner table, where the ceiling seemed to slant over our heads. I ignored the complimentary bread that they try to entice you with as soon as you sit, and instead ordered a glass of wine recommended by our waiter.
La Casa Di Nico, in case you are wondering, meaning Nico’s house. We didn’t see Nico, not that he would be walking around the restaurant holding up a placard with his name. There were numerous lunchers, eating lazily, like retirees with no jobs to go to, no homework to look at later.
My friend ordered the grilled salmon. I ordered what I have always ordered each time I have been there: some lemon fish that I never find on the menu, with rice. It’s really one of the best fish I have eaten. And this is coming from someone from the lakeside who has eaten fish all his life.
If I were to be sent to the gallows, it would be my last meal. It always leaves me affirmed as a human. It makes me feel safe in the world. It’s like being in a culinary womb.
It wipes off the memory of everything I have ever tasted in my life, resets my palate to a baby with only milk breath. It’s the meal for gods.
