October 9, 2002

I'M LUCKY TO have a Brazilian friend. If you don't have a Brazilian friend, you should go get one as soon as possible. Now, ask them about feshwada. I don't know how to spell it, but that's how you say it. Something like that. Feshwada. It's beans with pork and pork ribs and sausage and bacon and beef and all kinds of other goodness, served with rice (like jambalaya, only even darker and more mysterious). Our friend Mirian made this stuff with collard greens on the side and barbecued pork chops for dessert, and it was one of the most memorable meals I ever had. I've been sad and nostalgic ever since. Crawdad too. Every now and then we look at each other and say, "Remember Saturday?" or "Remember feshwada?" Either way, we both burst into tears. Couples counseling starts Thursday.

We're lucky to have a new neighbor who makes bread, and – better still – makes 18 loaves of it by accident, then shares the wealth. This was Sunday, the day after feshwada. For their housewarming party, this new neighbor guy made focaccia, and it was so good I almost went back over the next day to see about leftovers/apply for the position of wild-haired goofball neighbor in the sitcom of their life.

I could go on and on about lucky this and lucky that, but eventually I'd wind up all the way around the wheel of fortune to unlucky this and unlucky that, so let me just leave it at this, with the following little transitional thought: I don't know, it just seems that people cook now better than they used to. At home, I mean, and I mean me too. Maybe because I'm almost 40 all of a sudden and the people all around me are almost 35, and we all have that much more experience under our belts. So to speak. I know my belt's running rapidly out of holes.

The point being that as me, Tom, Dick, and Harry get better and better in the kitchen, I feel like the bar is raised for restaurants. I feel like they had better be pretty damn fucking good or else really really really cheap, because eating at home is turning out to be all of the above.

Which brings me to Emmy's Spaghetti Shack and why I have to hand it to them. (And why I'd like to spank them, even while handing it to them.) Because straight-up spaghetti and meatballs has got to be the hardest thing to pull off professionally. You don't have to be 39 1/2 years old to understand why. I myself was making my own homemade noodles and fresh garden-grown tomato sauces before I was even out of college. I was brought up on spaghetti and meatballs, as were a lot of other Americans, so the last thing in the world I want to order at a restaurant is spaghetti and meatballs. Especially when 10 times out of 10 they're not going to be any better than you can do at home (in almost no time at all and for 1/10th the price), and 9 times out of 10 they're going to be a lot worse.

In all the years I've been writing about restaurants, I don't think I've ever written about spaghetti and meatballs. Until now, because Emmy made me. First there's the name of the place: Emmy's Spaghetti Shack. Then there's the fact that nothing else on the menu even remotely approaches affordable – not for me and my kind, the kind of lowlifes typically drawn to "shacks" (not to mention "Emmy's"). Other than a nine-dollar burger and the appetizers, nothing was even under 10 bucks. More like $12 to $15.

Spaghetti and meatballs goes for $8, and I said I had to hand it to Emmy, and here's why: because, against all odds, it was great and huge and worth it. Three gigantic meatballs, probably a half pound's worth, or more, on maybe a half pound of thick spaghetti. One of those big bowls that doesn't even start to go away until you're almost full. And the tomato sauce was top-notch, fresh and spicy, with fresh black pepper, fresh parsley, and lots of cheese. Couple strips of focaccia.

Want wine with that? I do. Cheapest you can go is $5 for a glass of house red. At least it's good. I guess I'd rather pay $5 for a glass of actually good wine than $3.50 to $4 for some places' nasty-ass swill.