Years ago, when I lived just off The Drive, my then-boyfriend (is there a sadder term? I think not) and I would often go to a pasta bar and order large, cheap styrofoam containers full of pasta and sauce rather than have to endure the monotony of cooking and cleaning in our tiny galley-style apartment kitchen. The restaurant did have some tables, and we ate in from time to time, but ambiance wasn't its strong suit. I remember watching the cooks multi-task right in front of us: pouring olive oil and chicken in one sizzling pan, giving another one a practiced toss before food started to burn, pouring a finished pan's contents into the to-go container. The name of that place eludes me (and Google has been no help tonight), but I remember that Friday-night band practice would end, and my boyfriend or I would pronounce its name with an interrogative uplift in our voices, and more often than not, the other would smile and agree heartily.