Frankie's Little Europe
I have a habit of stumbling upon memories while cooking. On an ordinary weeknight, I will throw together something quick for dinner. Usually it’s pasta of some kind. On occasion, I will start a roux and add some milk, basil, and garlic. With that first taste, I am eight years old.
In a dark corner of an ordinary shopping center in Casa Linda, there existed a tiny restaurant called Frankie’s Little Europe. Frankie, the owner, would greet every guest who walked through the door. He knew who his regulars were and treated them like royalty. My parents and I had been regular customers there for years. Because of how expensive it could be, my father would limit taking us there only on special occasions which ended up being at least once month. Frankie would drop what he would be doing, rush over and kiss my mother’s hand as soon as we stepped through the door. Regardless of how busy they were I never remember waiting. At places three times their size, we would wait for over an hour on a Friday or Saturday night. At Frankie’s we never did. It was very clean with white walls and hardwood floors. The dining room had a spattering of around twenty tables covered in white linen with a single candle place in the middle of each. Mixed with some very dim lightening, the candles created a nice ambiance. It was perfect for romantic dinners to show some public displays of affection, which people did. There was one particular Valentine’s day in which a couple proceeded to kiss passionately and whisper perverse nothings into each other’s ear while my parents and I sat uncomfortably at the table next to them. We tried not to stare. That night, the staff added more tables so we were in closer proximity than usual to our fellow guests. My mom always liked to think that Frankie planted them there in spirit of the holiday. High above, there was a toy train traveling around the dining room with flags of different European countries along the track. It would appear out of the kitchen then along the far wall. It would proceed to move along over the front window and above the entrance where it would eventually head back to the kitchen. The waiters carried the menu which wasn’t printed on paper, but written on whiteboards so members of the table could look at it together and discuss each option. Each table will be provided with a complementary sliced baguette and an herb spread I have never been able to recreate or find. It was light and creamy with shallots and garlic. On several occasions, I would be sent to the back to ask for more. In hindsight, I now know that I would interrupt them at the worse times, but my cuteness as a child was undeniable, so my request was always happily met. The dish I would always have there was called the Marco Polo. I had tried to order something else on the menu on several occasions, but nothing sounded as tasty or delectable. It had angel hair pasta mixed in a béchamel sauce with basil and parsley. It was topped with grilled shrimp, scallops, and tilapia and garnished with julienned zucchini, squash, and carrot. Under the pasta was a grilled slice of eggplant which surprised me the first time I ate it. Although an experienced foodie by that point, I was still in the stage where vegetables were poison force fed to me by my parents. The meal would then be finished out with a cappuccino while you took in your surroundings.
The restaurant was in an alcove with a courtyard that had a fountain. Tables and chairs were set to create a patio. When the weather was nice the staff would open the doors to let in fresh air. On a warm May night, there would be a woman singing in Spanish while a man played guitar. It felt almost like a café in Provence or a bistro in Rome. If you squinted your eyes at the Dallas skyline, you might imagine the Colosseum in the distance while you completely ignored the nearby Albertson’s grocery store. Many other places would go overboard showcasing the European-ness of their restaurant which Frankie’s could have easily done. It was always nicer than most. Definitely pricier. Unlike, the trendy restaurants today, it had a limited menu with just good, well-prepared food. It didn’t experiment with differing tastes like a mad scientist on locally sourced espresso and red bull. It wasn’t pretentious or constantly changing their menu. It existed in a time before aioli was on everyone’s plates. In a business with a high turnover rate, it lasted for almost twenty years. It has become the restaurant I compare other places too. It was at restaurants like that where my parents taught me the joy of food.
In a dark corner of an ordinary shopping center in Casa Linda, there existed a tiny restaurant called Frankie’s Little Europe. Frankie, the owner, would greet every guest who walked through the door. He knew who his regulars were and treated them like royalty. My parents and I had been regular customers there for years. Because of how expensive it could be, my father would limit taking us there only on special occasions which ended up being at least once month. Frankie would drop what he would be doing, rush over and kiss my mother’s hand as soon as we stepped through the door. Regardless of how busy they were I never remember waiting. At places three times their size, we would wait for over an hour on a Friday or Saturday night. At Frankie’s we never did. It was very clean with white walls and hardwood floors. The dining room had a spattering of around twenty tables covered in white linen with a single candle place in the middle of each. Mixed with some very dim lightening, the candles created a nice ambiance. It was perfect for romantic dinners to show some public displays of affection, which people did. There was one particular Valentine’s day in which a couple proceeded to kiss passionately and whisper perverse nothings into each other’s ear while my parents and I sat uncomfortably at the table next to them. We tried not to stare. That night, the staff added more tables so we were in closer proximity than usual to our fellow guests. My mom always liked to think that Frankie planted them there in spirit of the holiday. High above, there was a toy train traveling around the dining room with flags of different European countries along the track. It would appear out of the kitchen then along the far wall. It would proceed to move along over the front window and above the entrance where it would eventually head back to the kitchen. The waiters carried the menu which wasn’t printed on paper, but written on whiteboards so members of the table could look at it together and discuss each option. Each table will be provided with a complementary sliced baguette and an herb spread I have never been able to recreate or find. It was light and creamy with shallots and garlic. On several occasions, I would be sent to the back to ask for more. In hindsight, I now know that I would interrupt them at the worse times, but my cuteness as a child was undeniable, so my request was always happily met. The dish I would always have there was called the Marco Polo. I had tried to order something else on the menu on several occasions, but nothing sounded as tasty or delectable. It had angel hair pasta mixed in a béchamel sauce with basil and parsley. It was topped with grilled shrimp, scallops, and tilapia and garnished with julienned zucchini, squash, and carrot. Under the pasta was a grilled slice of eggplant which surprised me the first time I ate it. Although an experienced foodie by that point, I was still in the stage where vegetables were poison force fed to me by my parents. The meal would then be finished out with a cappuccino while you took in your surroundings.
The restaurant was in an alcove with a courtyard that had a fountain. Tables and chairs were set to create a patio. When the weather was nice the staff would open the doors to let in fresh air. On a warm May night, there would be a woman singing in Spanish while a man played guitar. It felt almost like a café in Provence or a bistro in Rome. If you squinted your eyes at the Dallas skyline, you might imagine the Colosseum in the distance while you completely ignored the nearby Albertson’s grocery store. Many other places would go overboard showcasing the European-ness of their restaurant which Frankie’s could have easily done. It was always nicer than most. Definitely pricier. Unlike, the trendy restaurants today, it had a limited menu with just good, well-prepared food. It didn’t experiment with differing tastes like a mad scientist on locally sourced espresso and red bull. It wasn’t pretentious or constantly changing their menu. It existed in a time before aioli was on everyone’s plates. In a business with a high turnover rate, it lasted for almost twenty years. It has become the restaurant I compare other places too. It was at restaurants like that where my parents taught me the joy of food.
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