I’m moving in two weeks. Well, to be technical, two weeks from yesterday. While moving on and into Washington D.C. is a wildly exciting premise, any sort of major change in your life is always cause for a little bit of jitteriness. Yes, moving is exciting and different and new, but at the same time you’re leaving familiarity. There is, however, an inherent warmth of your home that will never dissipate, which is what gives more ease to the concept of moving. This whole premise is directly related to my dinner last night at Tarantino. It’s a place that I have always seen; a familiar staple across the street from the train station. It is a place, however, that I have never been to. At least in my position, it was a mixture of something old and something new.


What are you going to do when I move and you NEVER have to hear about any declarations of shared plates between my mom and I? I guess in that situation you’ll have to listen to me blabber on about how I begrudgingly brought half of my dinner plate home, shoved it in the fridge, and took a fork to it at midnight whilst slaving over my newly-found homework. I’m sure that will be the likely scenario in the next coming months. Midnight. Leftovers. Decrease of willpower. Increase of caffeine. But, fret not. You can hold onto your reading regularity, as my mom and I did in fact split dinner. In fact, my dad even assisted. A triple split! While that faintly sounds like some sort of hidden WWE technique it is also, in fact, a technique for sharing octopus.


The octopus was unbelievably tender without even the slightest inkling (heh, ink) of chewiness. The texture was essentially a cascade of soft, creamy, tenderness upon each bite. The smokiness of the octopus was perfectly balanced by the bright burst of freshness of the vegetables. That’s one thing I hate about sharing. You have to share. Greediness is not the most optimal vice during dinner time.



After the deliciousness that was the octopus, my mom and I split the striped bass special. Right so, unfortunately it was a special, and there is a possibility that you may not be able to have it. Should you see it on the menu, however, order it. That’s actually more of a direct piece of instruction rather than a suggestion.


The fish was buttery and tender, and the caper added a familiar salty, briny addition. Plus, the broccoli added a nice, healthy crunch.

Next time I find myself at the Westport Train Station, I will know not to be so egregiously ignorant as to pass by Tarantino. The dishes are traditional, yet contemporary, and there is a freshness and mindfulness to everything that is put onto a plate. Plus, if you get lucky, you can sit near a window and people-watch. That’s the in-dining entertainment.




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