I walked to Zarzuela anticipating roasted potatoes swimming in a spicy red sauce, baked goat cheese, Spanish anchovies… When I got there at 6:30 it was filled with people and had a sign in the window “Closed for private party.” I turned in despair from the sign just in time to see Mom and Dad climbing out of a taxi.

After calling Michael on a nearby pay phone and letting him know about our change in plans, we walked down to a little Italian place I’d noticed on the way, I Fratelli. I was initially disappointed. Mom and Dad had already had Italian that day, and I Fratelli , with its checked tablecloths, didn’t strike me as anything special.

It was a family place in every sense of the word. The owner seated his brother and his brother’s children behind us, two little girls in Catholic school uniforms and a little boy of about five, and my parents were charmed. I kept noticing them gazing past me with delighted grins and whispering about what the children were doing. The owner, a tall fellow with prematurely iron-gray hair, came over to talk to Dad, recommending a wine and explaining why Frascati, which Dad had loved in Italy, was not offered in America. (It must be served fresh, hence its name. By the time the bottles get to the United States the wine is too old and the bright taste that makes it special has vanished.)

The food was delicious, pronounced the best meal Mom and Dad had on their visit. At the end of dinner, while Dad was in the bathroom, I grabbed the check, dragging it out of Mother’s grip. I had to beg them to let me pay. “Well, all right,” Dad said, fixing me with his stern green gaze, “But I’ll never forgive you!”

I Fratelli, alas, came to a sad end. It was a wildly successful neighborhood place, one of those spots with regular and loyal customers both in the dining room and its bar. The rumor is the brothers who owned it hoped they could make even more money if they moved it to Fisherman’s Wharf — a terrible decision because the neighborhoods could not possibly be more different. The store vanished from shady, comfortable Hyde Street, reappeared in shiny, plastic Fisheman’s Wharf, and promptly went under. Now their old spot on Hyde Street is occupied by another small, intimate Italian restaurant, Seven Hills.