Week 6 :: Main (O, Pahhhsta)

If you are a student at Simon Fraser University, or simply a resident of North Burnaby, or a pasta-enthusiast, or of Italian descent, or a lover of leftovers, or frugal, then the chances that you've eaten at Anton's Pasta Bar are rather high. This past Thursday, in the regular tradition of my group of rag-tag theatre-school colleagues, I ventured over to Hastings to indulge in what can only be described as a very unique gastronomical experience. Anton's has a definite air of cultural mystique surrounding it; the lines that swell outside the small restaurant from 4 PM onwards draw consistent attention from passersby; the tiny foyer, always crammed with eager patrons, forces alliances between hungry strangers. And then, of course, there's that white styrofoam box.

The white styrofoam box for leftover pasta, always protected from the elements in its rainslicker/clear plastic bag, is perhaps the most enduring legacy of Anton's, whose servings of pasta (while obscene in their carbohydrate content) are awe-inspiring and immense. Years ago, they used to give pens to customers who were able to consume an entire dinner plate of pasta in one sitting; but recessions come and go, and novelty wears off, and yet the urban legend, the enduring heroic drama of eating those last few bites of penne all' arrabiatta or what have you, still draws cheers from one's fellow diners.

Let it be noted, if only to stave off my own paranoia about gluttony, that I have never managed to eat more than an eighth of a dish at Anton's. Granted, I have generally supplemented my consumption of pasta with a side of garlic bread as well as a dessert of some sort, so I have always left the premises feeling adequately stuffed.

I have, however, eaten leftovers for three days following a visit to Anton's, and this week was no different. Is there anything more decadent than heating up a bowl of pasta for breakfast, when the flavours have further married themselves within the dish overnight as the pasta nestled in its small synthetic cocoon? And it's not really just the overabundance of food that's so marvelous, the ease of simply re-heating, re-heating, and re-heating. Leftovers, at least in my experience, always carry with them the joy of the original meal itself; they seem to to preserve, in some mystical reliquary fashion, the laughter and the delight of an evening out with friends. And since dining out is (at least in my opinion) something that ought to be sacred and not done too often lest it lose its glamour, anything that allows those few hours of companionship to be re-visited and enjoyed once more is a blessing.

There was a bit of sadness yesterday afternoon as I defrosted the last of my pasta, looking wistfully into the light of the microwave oven, eagerly waiting for the last remnants of my little suburban pilgrimage. There's no prolonged despair, however; given that Anton's is a mere 25 minute drive from my house.

Anyone want to go for pasta?