On a recent balmy night in Brooklyn, my husband and I wandered down to the Columbia Street Waterfront for a rare date while our daughter was at Grandma’s house. Without a reservation, the good people at Popina scrounged up a table in their festively lit backyard, where we opened the menus on our phone. I’m pregnant again, so with a heavy heart I looked past the list of regional Italian wines and ordered a Spindrift. It arrived at our table cracked open, with a bright-green straw sticking out. Thick and rigid, the straw was a little starchy to the tongue but definitely not plastic. After commenting to my husband, a food-industry professional, that I had no clue what it was made of, he grabbed it, put it between his teeth, and said, “Honey, I think it’s pasta!” Our waitress later confirmed that not only was the straw made of pasta but gluten-free pasta, in case we were concerned. (Having trekked to Popina for its housemade casarecce, we weren’t, but we appreciated the tip nonetheless.)
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