Restaurant Part II: Attack of the Shrimps

We returned to the adorable hole-in-the wall restaurant tonight. I ordered a very disappointing gorgonzola gnocchi dish, and John ordered the random fried seafoods.

Seafood in Italy is always an adventure. The shrimps are the most exciting--and they are always "shrimps", because the same slightly confused translator (probably Google) seems to have gone through all the menus in town. (John likes to read out the menu entries in a Southern drawl.) Italian shrimps are not the pale, emasculated shrimps of the United States. They are served in full spike-covered armor, head still attached, black eyes staring at you accusatorily as you try to eat them. "Why you eat me? WHY?" The shellfish, while less guilt-inducing, have similarly robust personalities--ordering the mussels and scallops is not just a dinner choice, but a flavor commitment for the rest of the evening (and possibly the rest of the week).

But the fried seafoods tonight were delicious, if very Italian. We played Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes with the calamari, all of whose writhing body parts were clearly identifiable under a golden coat of breading. The shrimps were resplendent in their righteous indignation as always. And, despite initial confusion, we're pretty sure we figured out the right way to eat the whole fried anchovies (pop 'em in your mouth, chew, and try not to think too hard!) Although, if I was wrong about that, John says it's my fault if we both die of Mad Anchovy Disease.