The tables and chairs in District Commons at Washington Circle are gone; left on the wall is a photo of a glamorous crowd of dining patrons from the past. I have no gastro addiction to any dishes there nor exceptional experience except that once the menu’s metal edge left a small damage to my dress. But after something is gone, its color changes: first more vivid then gray until its last trace retreats into some small alley between twists and turns.
About two minutes away North Italia put tables and chairs out; if it were not the pandemic, I might never notice its existence in an office building. The chain restaurant’s calamari and pizza taste fine; they are just not like those in my memory. But memories are of the same stuff as dreams. How much then can we trust our memory about a place we are fond of?
