The last supper

Last night, Christine took Steve, me and Jeff to what she described as a simple trattoria serving traditional Roman food. No menu. The owner just recites a short list of pastas for the first course and then a few meats and vegetables for the secondi.

It was when the plate of heart and lungs and artichokes was placed on the table, all looking very dark and green and not very appetizing, that I realized that this was the first night of Passover. Oy vey, my mother would not have been happy. She would be pleased to know that I did not eat the heart and lungs but that I did drink four glasses of red wine—Brunello not Manaschevitz.