Toby Goodshank Original Art 2025

Life with Chicken and Broccoli

Author: Jimmy

  • Diner Review: The Blue Colony Diner – Newtown, CT

    Diner Review: The Blue Colony Diner – Newtown, CT

    Easy on, easy off.

    The Greek families who settled in Newtown, Connecticut weren’t content with just arriving in a new country. They wanted their own colony. A Blue Colony, to pay homage to their Grecian shores. When they were welcomed to the New World, they didn’t simply accept it. Maybe they got mad. Maybe they didn’t understand the language. Maybe they were just being stubborn. Either way, they said, “No problem. We make our own colony.” And so, the Blue Colony was born.

    Their relatives, settling in neighboring towns, followed suit by creating their own color-based colonies. The Red Colony still stands today, born out of friendly rivalry or maybe not-so-friendly fights between the families.

    They even created a crest for the Blue Colony: two majestic lions flanking a shield, proudly displaying the letters B and C. The message was clear. Don’t mess with our colony, Malaka!

    The diner has served us faithfully through the years. As kids, it was our Sunday morning ritual after church. I remember ordering from the kids’ menu; the Rocky Balboa Roast Beef with mashed potatoes, while my brother went with the Lion, a classic roast turkey dinner.

    In high school, the Blue Colony became our late-night landing zone. A place where inebriated or high teenagers scraped together loose change and dollar bills to split coffees and cheesy gravy fries. We would sit there trying to get our heads right before heading home, watching the cast of local characters filter in. Sometimes there would be a fight. Sometimes someone tried to run out on their bill. I earned my own badge of honor the night I got banned after rolling in with a rowdy crew who got into trouble. I didn’t even do anything, but I wore the ban like a badge.

    Fast forward to today, and this place still stands tall. A Newtown landmark since 1973, it is everything you would expect from a classic East Coast diner, full of charm and character.

    At the entrance, a massive display of oversized cookies, pastries, and desserts greets you. The diner is split into a right and left section. I always seem to end up on the left, the side we knew growing up. The right side is either newer or always felt darker. I can’t help but feel like Larry David, wondering if we are being deliberately pushed left. Is this the “ugly” section for undesirables?

    Our party of five was seated in one of the rounded corner booths on the left. Our server was a tall Greek man named Alex who did a great job. Diner staff can always be hit or miss. I feel most places have seasoned servers who carry a heavy life burden or maybe just the wear of so many years holding large plates. Most people are mirrored reflections of your own mood, so I always try to bring a fun, light energy.

    In diners, there are safe bets and there are total gambles. My friend once ordered spaghetti and meatballs at 1:30 in the morning—a clear gamble. He was ruthlessly mocked for it. I stuck with a classic: the Farmer’s Omelet, home fries, rye toast with butter, and a side of coleslaw. Everyone else had breakfast for dinner, except my sister-in-law and son, who went with the can’t-go-wrong turkey triple-decker with fries.

    I like my omelets slightly runny and my home fries with some char, but I never ask for it that way. I have been on a lucky streak lately and enjoy the surprise of seeing what shows up. The most impressive part? The speed. It felt like the cook in the back was racing a stopwatch to see how fast they could crank out five meals. The food arrived quickly and tasted exactly as it should; hearty, satisfying, and consistent with what has kept this place thriving for over 50 years.

    The coleslaw was reliably good, as it always is at a proper diner, each with its own variation. I had a spoonful of the seafood bisque, which came out like molten lava; flavorful, with mysterious but tasty chunks of seafood. I also appreciate that they serve a BIG cup of coffee, one that lasts the whole meal without needing a refill. And to finish, I snagged a few sips of my son’s black and white milkshake, ordered to calm his nerves after a tough baseball game. Everyone was happy and content with their food.

    Now, in midlife, I am glad they forgot about my ban from all those years ago. I can walk in with my head held high, check out the specials, sit among the early-bird diners, and get excited just like my mother used to about the sheer quantity of food at a great value. She always used to say, “I’m going to wrap this up and eat it for lunch tomorrow.”

    Thank you, Blue Colony, for settling these lands so many years ago and doing it your way.

    Final Verdict: 7.25/10

    W/Nostalgia Kicker 8/10

    Still one of the best around. Still doing it right.

  • Field of Dreams

    Field of Dreams

    Field of Dreams is one of those movies that leaves a lasting impression. I’ve seen it many times, and each viewing through the different epochs of my life, feels a little different. It’s an ode to a beloved game, but at its core, it’s really about a father and a son.

    I was never a big fan of baseball. The furthest I went in my younger years was T-ball or maybe Charlie Brown baseball. But the movie isn’t only about the sport. It’s about connection. About time lost. About youth and the wisdom that only comes from looking back. It’s about how pride can quietly wedge itself into the spaces between men, especially fathers and sons. It explores the classic “what if,” and reminds us that what truly makes life worth living is the love we share; our connections, our relationships, and especially that sacred bond between father and son.

    Our generation—Generation X—is denoted in mathematics as the unknown. But if there’s one thing we do seem to know, it’s the importance of being present in our children’s lives, especially in their sports. Our parents’ generation followed a more traditional arc, only to realize later that they wished they hadn’t spent so much time working. Through their passing and their experiences, we’ve begun to see through the shroud of that false reality.

    For my family and for my son that sport has always been baseball. America’s pastime.

    I know how precious this time is as a dad; the small window of adolescence when a father can still be both a hero and a friend. I can feel the life-sized hourglass pouring sand through my fingers. I get excited on game days, leaving work early, picking up my son,  and sharing that anticipatory car ride to the field. We talk about the game, what he’s working on, what he’s going to try. We talk about the effort he’s put in at practice, and always the psychology of hitting. Continously working on a routine so that thought doesn’t interrupt what repetition has already mastered.

    I drop him off and watch as he hustles toward the field. I take a breath and work hard to be in the moment; the warm spring air, the bright sun inching toward the crest of the tree line. Our games are held late in the working day, and most parents are there. We bring our folding vinyl chairs and line them up together along the baseline. No one congratulates themselves or talks about the “sacrifice” of being there, because we already know the heavy price of regret if we are absent.

    We watch our kids with heightened anticipation, that nitrous-like jolt of nerves as they step into the batter’s box or push off the pitching mound. My joy isn’t rooted in some longing to live vicariously through my son. It comes from being a proud, loving, and deeply content father, watching the most beautiful thing I’ve ever helped create simply living his life. The strength and rhythm of youth, the untarnished optimism, and a glorious, unknown future. I just want him to know how proud and loved he is, and for him to be able to step back and truly enjoy his moment.

    We sit quietly, offering our hopes and wishes to the baseball gods. Hoping for that “good hit”, that allows them to beat the throw to first. We know a bad at-bat will replay in their minds, and we just hope, deep down, that they can recognize the wisdom of not placing too much weight on any one moment. Smile. Breathe. See the ball. Hit the ball.

    Time is limited. And while the days can sometimes feel long, the years and life itself are incredibly short. I try never to rush the day or the moment. I take time to breathe in the air, to say my own quiet prayers of gratitude, and to give thanks for the chance to be part of something this beautiful.
    I remember the line in Field of Dreams, when the father turns to Kevin Costner’s character and asks, “Is this Heaven?”
    And in moments like these; watching my son, the sun setting behind the trees, a gentle spring breeze carrying a well hit ball through the air. I think to myself, it is.

  • Who is Chicken and Broccoli?

    Who is Chicken and Broccoli?

    Chicken and Broccoli is a playful nickname I use for my wife. It’s a moniker that conveys consistency, dependability, and reliability; a known quantity. It’s not haughty or pretentious.

    To be a great Chicken and Broccoli means being made of simple ingredients, prepared with love, tried and true. After a long week, it’s a dish you just want to sit on the couch with to relax and enjoy your favorite show. It’s something you can enjoy for a lifetime, without agita or complaint.

    We’ve been together for over 20 years now, and my wife has almost always ordered Chicken and Broccoli whenever we’ve had Chinese food. It’s become part of how I know her. When we were younger, I’d challenge her on it: “Don’t you want to try anything else? I can’t believe you just want the same thing!”

    But now, I get it. I appreciate the order. I appreciate knowing her, really knowing her and all the little things that make her unique. These small, steady preferences mark your soulmate from another as we stitch our own story on this cosmic quilt of life.

    Lately, I’ve been thinking more deeply: what else does it say about her?

    She doesn’t chase after fancy new dishes. She’s never soared with the Phoenix and Dragon. She’s not looking for the heat of the Sichuan region or going toe-to-toe with General Tso. She’s not dabbling with mung bean scrubs, and she’d like your Happy Family to keep it down. Even with the broccoli, she’s not mixing things up; no shrimp, no beef, no pork. Just chicken, thank you very much.

    As our friend Han says, “Thank you for the waitings!”

    Now, if your wife or girlfriend is Chinese menu curious, be warned: you might want to prepare for the other shoe to drop. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she might be cheating on you. Be warned that your spring roll may get swapped out for an egg roll. There’s a chance she’s wrapped up with triads or smoking opium in one of Newtown’s many hollowed-out dream factories full of stretch-pant mommies.

    But if your wife can stick with the same dish for a lifetime?

    That’s a great sign she can stick with you.

  • Restaurant Review: Mix Prime – Danbury, CT

    Restaurant Review: Mix Prime – Danbury, CT

    We celebrated a very special family birthday at Mix Prime in Danbury, Connecticut. For weeks, my son had been saying he was “dying to go to the Mix!”, a running joke in our house ever since my brother-in-law had been raving about the place and its 40-day dry-aged beef.

    The restaurant is divided into two sections. One is a bar area with booths and high tops, and the other feels like it was added later by knocking down a wall into an adjacent unit. Our table for twelve was tucked into the back corner of the restaurant with a window view of the grill master at work.

    The ambiance has a high-end steakhouse feel, with rich wood finishes throughout. I imagined Ron Burgundy walking in and commenting on the rich mahogany and many leather-bound books. Our waiter was a seasoned pro; friendly, playful, and clearly knowledgeable. He recited the day’s specials from memory without missing a beat.

    Since we were making a full night of it and had a large group, we ran the menu from start to finish: appetizers, entrees, cocktails, and coffee variations.

    The bread service was solid, freshly baked, though not warm and served with an olive tapenade in what we hoped was light olive oil. It didn’t quite look like extra virgin. I considered asking, but also didn’t want to find out I was dipping into a naughty seed oil. We requested butter and received small decorative balls of it, straight from the fridge and difficult to spread.

    For our appetizers, we started with the escargot, Caesar salad, French onion soup, and Prince Edward Island mussels. I was especially excited to see escargot on the menu, it’s a rare find around here. It arrived sizzling in a special dish, each piece nestled in its own well of garlic butter. The escargot was rich, buttery, and everything I had hoped for. The French onion soup was another standout, made with sweet Vidalia onions that gave the broth a mellow depth. I also had my eye on the roasted figs, but those will have to wait until next time.

    We ordered a variety of steaks: filet mignon, ribeye, and New York strip. I was hoping my wife would go for the prime rib, but she chose the filet mignon Oscar instead, which came topped with lobster meat, asparagus, and béarnaise sauce. The sides were just as varied: mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, sautéed mushrooms, Brussels sprouts, baked mac and cheese, and a steakhouse classic—creamed spinach, a house favorite.

    My wife and I are longtime steakhouse fans. We’ve visited many of the New York City staples and eventually decided that, for the price and consistency, Outback beat most of them. That was until LongHorn came along and raised the bar. That said, my 18-ounce dry-aged prime ribeye at Mix was cooked medium rare, came out sizzling with butter crackling on the plate, and was absolutely delicious. The quality of the cut was clearly superior, and the dry aging produced a noticeably more tender steak. Because of the thickness of the cut, I did need to season it with salt and pepper something I usually don’t have to do at LongHorn. Yes, it was about 60 percent more expensive than a LongHorn ribeye, but it was worth it. I’m not someone who enjoys paying more for gimmicks or pretension, and thankfully, that wasn’t the case here.

    My wife’s filet mignon was just okay in terms of flavor. We weren’t sure if the béarnaise sauce dulled the taste, but it definitely needed salt and pepper. It was ordered medium rare and came out rare in the center, which we actually prefer to it being overdone. We also sampled the New York strip, which was very good, but the ribeye was the clear winner.

    All of the sides ranged from good to excellent. My favorites were the creamed spinach, Brussels sprouts, and my baked potato; which was simple but elevated with all the right toppings. The restaurant offers three steak sauces: Cabernet, au poivre, and chimichurri. I tried the chimichurri, which was outstanding, slightly different than most in the best way, with a generous helping of scallions.

    For dessert, we brought our own birthday cake and pastries but did order coffees. The decaf cappuccinos were some of the best we’ve had in a while, less milk than usual, piping hot, and beautifully finished with a cinnamon dusting.

    The mood throughout the night was happy, relaxed, and celebratory. We weren’t the only birthday group there, and it’s clearly a go-to spot for special occasions. Another highlight was my brother’s deep songbird rendition of ‘Happy Birthday,’ complete with enthusiastic and slightly aggressive hand clapping. We’ll definitely be back for another round of steaks, and I can already hear my son: “I’m dying to go to the Mix!”

    Final Verdict: 8.45 out of 10

  • Restaurant Review: Tambascio’s – Newtown, CT

    Restaurant Review: Tambascio’s – Newtown, CT

    We have a saying when we’re out: “Don’t say home, say Tambascio’s.” Tambascio’s is our local spot, truly just down the road from our houses. We go through phases where we visit often, then somehow forget it, only to find ourselves saying, “Why didn’t we just go to Tambascio’s?” I think part of the reason it gets overlooked sometimes is its proximity to home. Familiarity doesn’t breed contempt in this case, just a kind of complacency when deciding where to eat.

    This review isn’t completely impartial, but the statements are 100 percent true.

    We went on a Wednesday night around 5:30 PM, and the restaurant was relatively quiet. We were greeted by the owner, who we know, and a friendly hostess. John, the owner, quickly told her to seat us at Table 23. I thought to myself, “Michael Jordan’s table in the corner.” I don’t think there are 23 tables in the place, so maybe he’s holding out hope that MJ strolls in after a stop at the Creamery and says, “I need a table.” To which John will respond, “Right this way, Mr. Jordan. We have a special one just for you.”

    Most restaurants these days don’t have the owner on the floor or in the kitchen, and I really appreciate John’s presence and love for his restaurant. It shows in the little things, which are geared toward the patron rather than the restaurant like spacing people out so they aren’t on top of one another.

    At Tambascio’s, they have someone designated for water and bread. I’m sure there’s an official title, but I’ll just call her the “Bread Lady.” Unfortunately, this Bread Lady wasn’t quite as warm and fresh as the rolls she delivered. But that’s okay, because we had Dale as our server. Dale is a local who has been there for years. He’s outstanding, professional, and friendly.

    Since it was the Wednesday after Mother’s Day, the specials menu still had “Mother’s Day” printed at the top. That initially made me hesitant, especially because I had my eye on the Paella de Valencia. As my father used to ask when it came to seafood: “Is it fresh?”

    My son, now graduated from the kids’ menu, ordered the Chicken Saltimbocca Milanese. My wife chose the New York Strip and Shrimp Marsala instead of just the lonely strip.

    Dale asked if we wanted to add a soup or salad to our entrées. I wasn’t planning to, but then he mentioned they had a homemade clam chowder. We also ordered the grilled sausage and broccoli rabe as an appetizer.

    We were starving despite having eaten that day. We’re just the “always hungry” types. We went through two baskets of bread: the first with rolls, the second with sliced bread. I wondered if the first basket was the “show pony,” and the second was like, “Come on, guys, this is a linen-covered table, not a flop house.”

    The broccoli rabe and sausage appetizer was delicious. The rabe was cooked perfectly; sweet, with just enough bite and texture without fighting your teeth. The sausage complemented the greens really well.

    The white clam chowder, which I shared with my son, was also very good. The texture wasn’t as thick as a diner-style chowder, which I appreciated. It had a smoother mouthfeel, more like a Manhattan-style chowder, something few places do anymore.

    The entrées all arrived on time and piping hot. After our first bites, we looked at each other and said what we always end up saying: “Why haven’t we been here more often?” The food was outstanding. My paella was overflowing with clams, mussels, shrimp, scallops, and andouille sausage over fragrant saffron rice. One thing that always impresses me about Tambascio’s is the quality of the seafood; it’s a notch above even most seafood-focused restaurants.

    My wife’s entrée was also excellent. Normally, ordering a steak at an Italian restaurant is a huge mistake, like the Goldbergs ordering trout at Beefsteak Charlie’s. But the quality and consistency of the cooking here surpass 90 percent of dedicated steakhouses. After we had finished, John came over to check in. We told him how much we appreciated the food, especially the seafood and steak. He let us know they cut the steaks fresh to order, and that they actually had a new cook preparing them that night.

    The final piece of the puzzle is the price. For both the quantity and quality, Tambascio’s is exceptional better than most alternatives, especially for a nice dinner out.

    We ended the night with two decaf cappuccinos and two tartufos: one for my wife and me to share, and one for our son. Content and satisfied at lucky Table 23, we didn’t see Michael Jordan, but honestly, he couldn’t have made the food any better.

  • Selling Our Childhood Home

    Selling Our Childhood Home

    My mother died unexpectedly on March 16th, 2024, from what we still don’t truly know. For a lot of people, that uncertainty causes angst. It seems that when people know what someone died of, they can soothe their own fears or file it away in a box to be shelved and never reopened. Science currently tells us that genetics only account for about 5 to 12 percent of our health outcomes, so I’m not concerned for myself.  What’s more disconcerting is that the people we love can be here one moment and gone the next. We all know this on some level, but when it’s your mother, it hits differently. You can’t fully grasp it until she’s no longer there.

    Her passing caused my father to follow not long after; he died in July of what I believe was a broken heart.

    Your childhood home is always your mom’s house. A father might pay for it or be the main contributor, but your mom makes it a home. She creates the atmosphere, the warm air of comfort and serenity that makes it a safe haven against the world. My parents were warm and loving, and our home was a fortress of solitude filled with a childhood of happy memories. My favorite spots were the living room, the downstairs game room I created, and the property outside.

    My brother and I are blessed in that we could keep the home. We could leave it empty indefinitely as some kind of forever monument to our parents. But choices aren’t always blessings. They can bring ambiguity, and with that comes stress. What should we do? Should we sell it? Turn it into a giant man cave with video games, projectors for movies, pinball machines, arcade cabinets, a meeting place for family dinners, pickleball courts, and maybe even a lazy river around the perimeter? My son was fully on board as the vision for this funhouse kept ever growing in scale.

    We also considered turning it into a rental or Airbnb, but when we looked at the income versus the upkeep, it didn’t make sense. It does have an in-law apartment, but that couldn’t be used unless we lived there. When your parents die, you grow up. Even though I’ve been doing all the adult things for years, I have managed to remain childlike until now.

    My parents were what I’d call “light” hoarders. They had an addiction to stuff: knickknacks, bric-a-brac, collectibles that lost value over time, obscure curios, and they just kept adding shelves to hold more and more. They enjoyed the thrill of acquiring things they’d rarely touch again. We always joked that when they passed, we’d need a bulldozer to clear out the house. Instead, we’ve spent months going through everything slowly, trying to be respectful and dutiful sons. We did our best to keep what we could and ended up moving several shelves’ worth of their things to my mother-in-law’s house. My mom’s Beanie Babies made the cut, and I hope she can forgive us for what we threw away.

    All the while, we kept deliberating on what to do with the house. Eventually, we made the decision to sell, and once that choice was made, I felt a huge wave of relief. We’re still in the process of clearing it out. Three (soon to be four) giant dumpsters later, and we’re finally getting close to the finish line.

    After finishing another long Sunday of cleaning on a beautiful spring day, I brought my brother up to the deck. My father had fallen in love with the house because of the property. Even though it was on a busy road, the back of the lot reminded him of Central Park, a peaceful escape for someone who grew up on the streets of Manhattan. And he was right. It’s beautiful, quiet, and serene. The deck is surrounded by the family room and the master bedroom addition he had built. It created a kind of protected enclosure with a park-like view. He never dreamed, growing up, that he’d have something like this. I can still see him floating in the pool on his raft, soaking in the sun.

    The nostalgia hits hard: hanging outside, growing up, playing in that yard, parties, holidays, family movie nights. With those memories, my resolve wavers. My brother has been conflicted as well. But I know those ghosts of the past are just that, memories. What we had can never be again. That is incredibly hard to reconcile and yet as the same time, it is still okay.

    I’m incredibly grateful. I love the life I have now, I love my family, and I treasure the way we grew up. I feel renewed and oddly content. I think about the future and the family who will one day buy this home. I imagine them walking through the door and somehow feeling what we always felt coming home: peace, safety, love. I hope the home my mother created, the protection my father provided, and the warmth that filled these walls blesses their lives the way it blessed ours.

  • Wing Review: Buffalo Wild Wings – Danbury CT

    Wing Review: Buffalo Wild Wings – Danbury CT

    What hasn’t been said about Buffalo Wild Wings, the epitome of wing excellence, sitting atop the tallest ivory tower in Foodom? I was weary of this place for years. I thought it was a hole. A certain kind of hole, the kind that things come out of, not the kind things should be going into.

    I finally changed my tune when I found out they fry their wings in tallow, only to later have my heart broken by Bobby Parrish and his insidious green thumb of approval (or disapproval). So what you’re saying is that both natural and artificial flavors are bad for me? I can’t live like this! RFK couldn’t have come quick enough to remedy what ails me. Anyway, enough of that business, so says Mr. Morrow.

    The recent trend in all these chain dining restaurants is to have a digital layout of the space so they know where to Amber Heard you around. When I go in now, I run away from the entry check-in stand and look to see where I want to sit. I don’t care about what is good for them, I want to know what is good for me. I don’t care about efficiencies or how many tables Karen or Steve has. I’m Veruca Salt and I want it now.

    On this visit, I deferred to my son who was left defeated when our hostess directed us to one unseated table to complete her Tetris puzzle block of placement and win her manager’s approval for “Most Sauciest!”

    His hesitation to push back on the seating choice had everything to do with our hostess, who stood about five feet tall but commanded the Danbury location with an iron fist of efficiency and unshakable determination. Her rolled-up sleeves revealed full-arm tattoos that seemed to carry stories of pain, struggle, and maybe even a flicker of hope for a better day. If wings ever needed a guardian angel, she was it. You just knew she wasn’t about to let a single ranch cup go unaccounted for.

    It’s always hit or miss with the servers. We have had some great ones and then we get some schlubs. Our server today was known as TT, TT the cookie making aunt, and she was super sweet. She even offered to make us cookies next time we came in, but we had no way to let her know when we’d be back.

    We always ask how many flavors we can get and it’s always six on thirty wings, one flavor per five wings. Our family staple is Salt and Vinegar. My wife enjoys Buffalo Mild and daughter Judy likes Barbecue. Then my brother and sister in-law are the wild cards. They check out the new flavors while still paying respect to the classics. No matter what we ate, my brother was getting something later so did it matter, did it ever matter?

    We get sodas and they come in giant plastic glasses and they keep them flowing. Coke Zero or is it Pepsi, then the seltzers. Don’t you ever forget the seltzers! If you are married to an Italian from Westchester County, they always have a seltzer with lemon. No water. Not now. Not ever. And sometimes we just tell them, “Get a pitcher!”

    The wings are small to medium sized and always cooked perfectly. We asked that they come “Crispy”. The cafeteria dining tray we receive with the flavors and a separate tray for our blue cheeses, carrots, and celery are always welcome sights. We knock down the first thirty and order another thirty. There are also some American burgers ordered with fries. The American Smash Burger they have there is what you want when you get a fast food burger. It is delicious and probably good for you. Probably.

    Final Verdict: 8.15 out of 10
    Some of the best wings around. You know it.

  • Restaurant Review: Mangia Mi East – Sandy Hook, CT

    Restaurant Review: Mangia Mi East – Sandy Hook, CT

    Saturday night before Mother’s Day and we arrive at this beautifully renovated house-turned-restaurant on the hill in Sandy Hook, CT. Taking the Missus out the day before Mother’s Day to avoid the crowds and share just a small token of the gratitude and thankfulness I have for her.

    We were fortunate enough to call at 5:10 PM and get a reservation for 5:30. However, when we arrived, most of the interior dining area was sparsely filled. It was a beautiful spring evening and we wanted to sit outside, though we hesitated as the building faces west and we didn’t want the setting sun in our eyes. Fortunately, the front porch area is spacious and there was a four-top right beside the exterior door that provided shade and a warm breeze.

    The outside area was more lively, still about halfway to capacity. There was a table of four beside us that was a little boisterous, probably due to some well-deserved spring daydrinking. One of the cocktails of choice that I overheard reordered was a Jack Daniels on the rocks, which I can only describe as Sandy Hook chic.

    The restaurant location is pleasant. However, sitting outside, there is a construction site adjacent to the porch which you can’t do anything about. The property line of the restaurant could use some landscaping TLC maybe a mow, a bed of flowers, or even a well-shaved bush.

    My wife’s family is Italian and they are all exceptional cooks, so we really need a draw to go out for Italian food. I was hoping for a large seafood entrée like a Zuppa di Pesce with all the bountiful umami of the sea. Mangia Mi does make their own pasta, which is so critical when you have so many Italian restaurants and ever-increasing, inflated costs. How can you justify a $35-plus entrée for dry spaghetti that costs two dollars a pound?

    The wait staff was all younger local kids. They were very friendly and helpful. Our waitress was especially kind and knew the menu well, able to help with questions or assist with a selection.

    We decided on the Roasted Brussels Sprouts with crispy pancetta and shaved pecorino, and my wife wanted the Blistered Cherry Tomato Crostini. I feel like the price point on these was $18 for the sprouts and $13 for the crostini, which is important because there was a vast difference between them not unlike Alfredo’s Pizza Café and Pizza by Alfredo.

    The Brussels sprouts were delicious, cooked through so they were soft but still had a little char and crisp from the roasting heat. The shaved pecorino provided a complementary texture, along with the salty and generous cubes of pancetta. My mild case of OCD kicked in, separating the food to get each bite to include a trio of the ingredients.

    Now, as lovely as the Brussels sprouts were, the crostini was disappointing in the other direction. It reminded me of when my mom used to do cheese and crackers for the daycare kids except I would have much rather preferred those. For thirteen dollars, you got three small pieces of crostini, a tight smear of cheese, and around six to nine small cherry tomato halves. There was no flavor and it was just blah. It hurt my frugal heart.

    For our entrées, I got the Shrimp Fra Diavolo over homemade linguine, and my wife got the Crispy Chicken Piccata with capers, lemon, and wine over tagliatelle. My entrée was good, but I can only describe it as and now I know what it means to say one dimensional. The pasta was cooked well but had no flavor. The fra diavolo sauce was good but again, just missing something. It felt like some red sauce with a nice bit of heat, but I wanted to add salt, pepper, and garlic. The shrimp was also very well cooked but lacked seasoning and depth. It felt as if each part had been cooked separately, and when combined, they weren’t feeling one another  so they kept their distance. There was no love, no sweet Italian serenade on my plate.

    My wife’s entrée was another story. The ingredients were old friends. They had obviously been hanging out and enjoyed one another’s company. The crispy chicken was thin, flavorful, and pan-fried wonderfully. The piccata sauce with capers soaked into the chicken and tagliatelle, with a beautiful lemon freshness dancing around shouting “Look at me!” It had that mangiami (eat me) attitude. I ended up taking parts of her dish and incorporating them into mine to bring out some flavor, and it worked nicely.

    After our meals, my wife was excited to get a dessert called banana bread pudding which she had before. However, we found out it was part of the seasonal menu and they didn’t have it. That was okay because we were content to have our decaf cappuccinos, however we found out they don’t have those either. In the end, we were sitting quietly on the deck and thought it would be nice if they had some light background music, when all of a sudden “Make It with You” by Bread started playing from somewhere.

    The gentle breeze and warm tune lifted us up and carried us quietly back across town.

    Final Verdict: 7/10
    This was our second visit, and I’m hopeful that they will pull it all together for a third-time’s-the-charm experience.