So, we have discovered the Best Italian Restaurant On The Planet.
That should be their official name, but it doesn’t quite grab you like their actual name: The Godfather.
Is that awesome or what?
Their name is actually what made us stop.
My parents came to California for a couple of days while we were there, and took us to dinner on Tuesday night. We were driving around the La Jolla area trying to find an interesting non-chain type place when I spotted this sign:
I don’t know if I’ve told y’all this before, but my Dad is a first generation American. His parents immigrated from Italy before he was born. (The legal way, just so ya know. We have Ellis Island documents to prove it.) So our family loves good Italian cooking
We whipped around in a U-turn and pulled into the microscopic parking lot, and I made the comment “It’s in a strip mall” to the query about the potential swankiness of the place.
I was wrong. Very very wrong.
Tuxedoed waiters. Framed Rat Pack pictures. Dark woods. Cool chandeliers. White tablecloths. $25 bottles of wine.
Um, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.
Luckily, no one else was dressed up there, either. Well, except for the waiters who, as I mentioned, were tuxedoed.
The food, y’all, was freakin’ fantabulous. The best Italian food outside my Aunt Jeannie’s kitchen, and trust me, that is a huge compliment. My parents’ were given a to-die-for rum cake slice from the staff, as we were celebrating their 20th anniversary that evening.
Yes. Yes, it was divine. But no picture of how pretty is was because, as before, we just dug right in.
My dad thinks that restaurant is a good enough reason to drive to California every now and again. And so do we.
