Today, we decided to chase that memory. We weren’t sure if it would hold up — sometimes nostalgia plays cruel tricks — but we walked down those same stairs, and it all came rushing back. The air carried the familiar scent of warm bread and marinara. The trolley was still there, and though neither of us climbed in, we smiled like old friends greeting it from across the room.
We knew what to order without hesitation. Toasted ravioli — St. Louis’ finest contribution to the culinary world — kicked things off, each crispy bite dredged through marinara and dusted with Parmesan. For the main course, I went with browned butter noodles, a simple yet perfect dish that reminded me why comfort food earns its name. My brother tackled the meat trio plate, heaping with meatballs, sausage, and rich meat sauce — a dish as excessive as it was glorious.
And just when we thought we’d reached the end, the waiter arrived with a single scoop of spumoni — that swirl of colors and flavors that defies neat description. Cherry, chocolate, pistachio — a cold, creamy finish that somehow manages to be both bold and delicate. It was the perfect final note, a punctuation mark on the meal — unexpected yet just right.
Some meals nourish more than just the body. This one fed a memory, a connection, a story we’ve told each other for years but now had the chance to relive. We laughed, we ate, and we remembered — not just the food, but ourselves as children, perched on the edge of those seats with wide eyes and full hearts.
I’d forgotten how powerful it is to revisit those places that shaped us — to sit down, take a bite, and find that some memories are still warm, still comforting, still delicious.