As if lip locking with a British rose seller didn't raise enough street corner skepticism, I seemed to have glossed over the incident with the non-Italian busboy at NYC’s Little Italy’s, De Gennaro. (By the way, is it still open, Erin Leigh Schmoyer? And did I get the name right? De Gennaro? San Gennaro? In any case, thanks for introducing me to all the fun.)
Said place has/had great food and apparently, phenomenal wine. It must be true because the bus-boy-turned-tour-guide, led me by the hand to the kitchen where I was entranced by vats of pasta and could try the meat-ah-balls! But naturally, next thing you know, I'm making out with him. Did it happen in the kitchen or by the dessert case? It all gets fuzzy...
Pull it together, Caroline. Have a cannoli instead. What was my deal?
Answer: College and Chianti.
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