While our waitress had absolutely no idea what “fra diavolo” was, the chef did. But he must have been worried that I couldn’t stomach the sauce — which translates to “Brother Devil” in Italian — because it arrived on its own, in a bowl, on the side. Apparently the majority of the people who eat at this old-school Italian steer clear, which is a shame, because the fra diavolo is way, way better than the joint’s spaghetti sauce.
Guess where I’m eating?
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