Guess where I’m eating?

There are few things that piss me off more than restaurants that serve frigid tomatoes. I’m only going to say this once: Your walk-in, refrigerator — whatever — is a tomato’s mortal enemy, its murderer of flavor, its slayer of scent. Ever wonder why the flesh of a tomato is mealy? Blame the idiot who stores it somewhere with arctic air. 

Not all restaurants are guilty of tomato slaughter, including the one where I snapped the above pic. Those tomatoes, their flesh juicy, ripe and just slightly cool, had been beautifully handled. And since this is a restaurant that realizes that every terrific tomato goes even better with burrata, there’s a generous blot of that, too.

True, it’s only Wednesday, but so far, this is the best dish I’ve had all week. Can you guess the kitchen that made me moan?