There’s this restaurant in our neighborhood. A little family-run Italian spot. They’re famous for their flatbreads and “gravy” (southern people, this is what Italian folks call “spaghetti sauce”) and wine. It’s small and dim, but the walls are painted a friendly yellow and there are giant pictures of tomatoes and eggplants and basil on the walls. Behind the bar, there are dozens of delicious Italian wines. You need a reservation on the weekends, but you can usually snag a spot at lunch.

It opened after I was in college, but it quickly became our family favorite. Graduations, birthdays, impressing out of town friends, girls night out – it was our special-occasion go to.

And I absolutely, steadfastly, refused to take a date there. Logic being, if I were to take someone there, and it were to end badly, I’d have to give up my eggplant rollatini and – god forbid – free birthday cannoli and tiramisu. Memories of a crummy relationship might taint the place, and frankly, it just wasn’t worth it. Some things need to be protected.

Because I told this to Preston shortly after we started dating, we waited until we were engaged to go to Bella’s. Sure, we got occasional takeout, and we both knew it was just a silly rule, but we stuck to it anyways.

When we got married, we had our rehearsal on the officiant’s deck and went to Bella Monica, just us two. We drank wine and ate so much food we could barely breathe. It was a really special evening.

Since then, we’ve been dozens of times. They’ve taken the eggplant rollatini from being a weekend-only dish, to one that is on the menu all the time. *Somehow the sauce tastes exactly the same and the tiramisu is just as perfect as it has always been. Every year around my birthday, they serve pumpkin ravioli with beautifully crispy mushrooms and pecans and wilted spinach.

Tonight, just before the short thunderstorm, I picked up our favorites and brought them over to hospice house. We opened the doors and ate rollatini and listened to the rain.

But, as I was cleaning up, it occurred to me that, despite my youthful efforts to keep Bella’s emotionally untouched, I’d failed rather spectacularly.

We saved our tiramisu for later. Hopefully he’ll be alert enough to really enjoy it. And I’m hoping that eventually, I can eat there again and find the familiarity and comfort a favorite restaurant can bring. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy this final date night of Italian food and hockey in this strange room with distinctly less charm on this occasion that is special in its own way.

*editor’s note – I was totally wrong about the bankruptcy and owner shift! My apologies!!