On a recent night, we took our son and daughter out to dinner in Washington, D.C., where they both worked this summer. We let them bring along some friends, and we all settled at a table in an Italian restaurant my daughter had chosen.
It was a small place, and the waiter, an older Italian gentleman, was busy. His English wasn’t great. We took a few minutes perusing the menu, which was your standard fare. I ordered the eggplant parmesan, my husband ordered chicken parm, my son a pizza, and daughter something called Pasta Jambalaya.