I’ve been to one f***ing perfect restaurant in my life. No stars. No “this chef” or “that chef” or “this fucking magazine” or “food that floats.” It was a restaurant where everyone was laughing their ass off all the time and talking over each other so you couldn’t even hear s***. And it was a restaurant that served meatballs and, like, two-day-old lasagne and cold cuts and whatever else was f***ing left in the fridge. It was a restaurant that, you know, like, made me feel less alone.