Recently, I ate a plate of carbonara that seemed blessed by heaven itself. I was sitting at a tiny two-top on the sidewalk patio at Via Carducci La Sorella, a cozy neighborhood Italian joint in Chicago's Wicker Park. When the waiter brought out my pasta — thin spaghetti enrobed in a golden, yolky sauce and flecked with crisped pancetta — I swear that a sunbeam broke through the early evening haze and shone directly onto my plate.
It was as if God was indicating his approval for the dish in all its delicate, opulent glory.
