So I'm at John's of 12th Street, my favorite red sauce Italian established in 1908, with my 8 year old daughter. The pork braciole was tender like butta. Then I asked for meatball parmigiana even though it wasn't on the menu. The waiter tells me and my daughter that the chef is in a particularly foul mood and would not take kindly to "special orders". I said tell the chef to come out. When he does, I pistol whip him, make him bite the curb at the base of the bar and stomp the back of his head until all of his teeth go flying...then my daughter tugs on my shirt and I snap out of my daydream just as the waiter brings me 3 meatballs, each the size of my head covered in mozzarella. What a great restaurant.