In my travels, I have chomped on crispy dead crickets atop a salad like they’re croutons and sawed through a rubbery layer of skin and fat to get to the meat of a grilled guinea pig. But as adventurous an eater as I fancy myself to be, I can be a predictable creature of habit when it comes to Italian restaurants. If you’re dining with me, you can start taking bets on how few seconds it takes me to ask you, “If I order some meatballs, will you have some?”

A pasta joint is only as good as its meatball recipe. I want them as an appetizer because it helps me manage my expectations for the rest of the meal. Okay, that’s a bit of a lie. Ordering those savory spheres is the act of a desperate, insecure man. I want the meatballs to be good, of course. But I don’t want them to be better than the ones I make.