Chris — a friend I know through Tarot circles — and his partner, Tony, meet us in the hotel lobby. When we get down to making dinner plans, I ask, “What’s your favorite place?”
Tony considers this. “Frankie Tomato’s. Yeah, I was kinda hoping for Frankie Tomato’s.”
Clyde and I are always open to new dining experiences, so off we go, snow crunching underneath our feet.
Nothing in our experience prepares us for Frankie’s.
The restaurant’s exterior features a faux Roman facade: columns, arches, and even a leaning tower of Pisa. Once inside, we find ourselves walking along a twisting, cobbled lane through an indoor version of a southern Italian village. Tiny storefronts give way to rooms full of happy diners … and, once we pass the elaborate fountain near the center of “town,” we discover the buffet itself is spread throughout an entire “neighborhood.”
I start in the suburbs, where young men in white aprons grill French bread in bubbling butter. From there, I sample six or seven salads, the antipasto assortment, and the cold pasta dishes. After a brief stop at our table to consume my first plateful, I find myself wandering the streets again, this time stopping for pizza, corkscrew pasta with lemon sauce, peel and eat shrimp, and more of that incredible bread.
(When confronted with the veal parmigiana and all-you-can-eat steaks, my ban on beef almost gives way. Almost.)
Despite being at the bursting point, I go back for desserts: cheesecake bites drizzled with chocolate, chocolate-dipped macaroons, frosted chocolate brownies, apple brown Betty, and Italian wedding cookies.
The meal is amazing — one of a kind, really, since there’s only one Frankie’s. The good food and good company are topped off with a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee before we wind up back at the hotel: fat, full, and feeling sleepy.
So far: I love this town.
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