The first time I had this dish, I didn’t even know what I was getting.

My boyfriend at the time and I had recently moved in together, and we were deep in the early stage of love that feels both safe and like you’re falling forever, but you don’t want it to stop. Everything we did, from reading the paper to going to parties, seemed unique and new, more important simply because we did it together.

We often ate out on Saturday nights, so when a friend recommended a restaurant in a neighborhood I’d vaguely heard of – Ravenswood – and said it was the best Italian food he’d ever had, we went to check it out. It was a tiny place called Cara Mio.

We drove through the adorable neighborhood to the inconspicuous restaurant with a line out the door. When our name was called, we were seated at a small table in the back. I was ravenous, and every item on the menu sounded amazing. I asked our burly waiter what he would recommend as he filled our water glasses.

He paused mid-pour and looked at me with a solemn expression. “Do you like mushrooms?”

Yes, I said. I love mushrooms.

He closed his eyes almost reverently and took my menu with a slight tip of his head. I knew I was in good hands.

My boyfriend Tim asked about another menu item, and the waiter shook his head quickly. “You don’t want that,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.” He removed the other menu and left us with each other.

I laughed at this exchange. “I wonder what we are going to have,” I said, sipping my water (I’d forgotten to bring wine, and the restaurant was BYOB). Tim shrugged, “I’m not worried.”

We held hands across the table, talked about the previous week and plans for the following weekend. The din of the front room seemed muted and far away. It was just us, lit by candlelight, waiting for whatever came next, at dinner and in life.

Indeed, there was no need for fear because soon a veritable platter of amber gnocchi spiked with chunks of mushrooms was set before me. “Gnocchi with mushroom sauce,” the waiter said. “Enjoy!”

From the first bite, I was under the spell of this dish.

A golden cream sauce draped over pillows of fluffy gnocchi filled somehow with more mushrooms. Each bite was a dream of indulgence, both rich and light, savory and balanced. The pieces of mushroom were toothsome yet tender. It grew more complex the more I ate. The umami of mushrooms. Perhaps a touch of rosemary?

The portion was so huge, I couldn’t imagine finishing it, but each time I thought I was done, I told myself, maybe just one more bite. Finally, I admitted defeat and asked the waiter if I could take the precious leftovers home.

“How did you like it?” he asked as he returned with a Styrofoam box.

I nodded wordlessly. The waiter allowed a slight smile and nodded back. He knew.

Since then, we’ve returned to Cara Mio dozens of times. My mother has also become a convert. She prefers the Vitello Piemontese (the same addictive sauce, with veal and mushroom ravioli), but her enthusiasm is no less complete. We joke that she only comes to visit so we can go to Caro Mio. (Note: She does not dispute this claim.)

I’ve found we aren’t alone in our devotion. When my neighborhood Moms’ group on Facebook discusses favorite local restaurants, a mention of Cara Mio is always followed by gushing commentary that falls along the lines of, “I would eat a boot dipped in that mushroom sauce.” It’s that good.

But for me, the attraction goes beyond the culinary delight that is this dish. Somehow the magic is in the memory of how it was once just the two of us, ready for the future, for the unknown, happy with whatever happens because we were together. We still are.

We have been married for more than a decade, and we bought a house just a few blocks away from the original location. (Coincidence? I think not.) Every time we plan to go, I anticipate the joy of this dish days in advance. I ordered it as takeout during the pandemic shutdown, and it was a highlight of that dark time.

My sons often dine there with us now, and while one is a butter-with-Parmesan-on-farfalle guy, the other recently tried a bite of my gnocchi.

His eyes opened wide as he chewed, and he nodded with silent veneration. Now he knows, too.

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This essay also appeared in FLM - Fete Lifestyle Magazine in the November 2021 issue.