No Mi Adore Cavatore

A few weeks ago, Matt and I decided we wanted to be suburban, so we decided to drive to Applebees. Yep, that was our first mistake. Thinking we wanted Applebees. To get there, we ended up on some back roads that took us past an adorable little place called Cavatore.

Without even talking about it, we pulled into the driveway and changed our plans from Applebees. This was mistake number 2. I regularly chastise my students for not doing their homework. And here, I hadn't done mine.

The place was all kitschy... it was great. It looked like an old bar-b-que joint. It was wooden decor inside with hand painted signs directing people to local businesses. There were old fashion wash tubs and wash boards, fishing poles, pictures of cowboys.... Don't be deceived, this is not a bar-b-que joint. Not even close. It is, in fact an Italian restaurant. It's as though the previous owners decided to up and leave, and these squatters moved in. There was nothing to suggest this down-home Texas place was even remotely close to having any Italian atmosphere.

While walking in, we saw that Michelangelo was live every night. That meant nothing to us, until we sat down and took stock. The one, the only Michelangelo was about 65 years old, and he was dressed in a tuxedo. All 15 hairs on his head were slicked back into a foot-long ponytail. It was greasy and disgusting. He serenaded all four tables with the likes of Moon River and other sentimental favorites. At one point, another patron (a 15 year old girl) got up and played a little diddy as well. While she was performing her encore, Michelangelo came over and asked if we had any requests. Mmmm... no, not really. Except for you to take that grease-ball hair somewhere else.

We ordered the veal Parmesan and manicotti. When I eat Italian, I look for garlic, basil, oregano, and tomato. I look for wonderful blends of bubbling cheeses. What I got was repulsive. It was not only cold, but sweet. Sugary sweet. In that gaggy fake sweet way. Have you ever taken a drink of something thinking it was diet coke and realized it was root beer? For that moment, you're confused. You think, ick. What's that? Then you figure it out and move on. That was initially what happened. It wasn't what I expected. But in my case, there was no moving on.

To go into detail would be too much, but what I can tell you is that the meat was tough and soggy, the manicotti was in a ramekin and never really heated through (um, microwave much?). And the service, which should have been great given that everyone was standing around with no one to serve, was almost non-existent.

I am sad to say, not even Michelangelo can bring me back.