I hear the words penne alla vodka and immediately I’m 12 years old again, sitting in the booth of my family’s favorite suburban Italian-American restaurant, a tacky trompe d’oeil “frescoed” ceiling overhead, wood paneled-walls all around, and the smell of fresh-baked ciabatta-style dinner rolls wafting through the air.

The plaster columns by the door are more Grecian than Roman, Frank Sinatra plays on the tinny sound system, and the “parmesan” is from a shaker. I enthusiastically encourage the waiter to keep piling it on top of my overflowing plate, a portion size that will easily last me two more meals after this.