I need my teeth cleaned. Oh no wait, I want lasagna. Oh no wait, has anyone seen my fucking socks?
Happy birthday Ashley! Let's celebrate! Visconti House. You pasta-filled freakshow. Our only warning was that Helen, a dear and lovely friend with a flare for the retarded, suggested it via email using phrases such as "Total hole in the wall Italian" and "quite hilarious and fun". (Recent Helen-related events involve her trying to squeeze me into some acid-wash jeans against my will, and pissing off a boat last used by David Hasselhoff into a frigid, subzero lake and subsequently losing at least half my anus as a result.)
Although the facade of Visconti House looks EXACTLY like my dentist's office, or possibly a more discreet abortion clinic, the food was actually acceptable--fantastic minestrone and a very good cannelloni that i was urged to order after the Server-With-The-Questionable-Eyebrows told me that they were out of the lasagna i wanted. "I ate it!" he cordially divulged. The other ladies evidently had sub-par meals, including gnocchi that was more of a mashed potato mess con sauce, and some greyish meatballs that had apparently been involved in the same "work-related accident" as the owner, God bless him.
But the real treat here at Visconti House is for those who might need to relieve themselves during dinner. One does not generally expect a full size shower with glass doors in a public restaurant bathroom. Nor does one expect, should there be a bathing facility, someone's SOCKS to be hanging in said shower. Furthermore, should there be hanging socks, one's only hope is that they not have mold growing all the fuck over them. No such luck. Our friend Michelle took this shot with her iPhone and emailed it to me with the subject "Secret Ingredient". Buon appetito!