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Pistone’s Italian Inn

It’s about as small town as suburban DC can feel. The sign glows looks like a dim beacon from the roadway - Pistone’s Italian Inn.

You walk up to the entrance of this white rectangular white stone building and walk into what could be an old timers Vegas Lounge. You can swim through the air its so thick with history. While the walls are decorated with Halloween paraphenalia and spoofed works of art, the place is as authentic as the pieces those works emulate.

Most of the patrons were my probably closer in age to my grandparents that they were my parents, and that was part of the unmistakable mystique - and what made me feel so relaxed, ultimately. A man played a so-so keyboard in the dimly lit corner, occasionally embarking on wild solos that impressed us enough to distract us from the company.

The food and drink seemed lost in the place and company, but the filet mignon with rosemary sauce was tender and affordable, and you could order two nice glasses of wine and a cocktail for $20 at the bar.

The table was a political and professional potpourri, but the bonds of friendship overshadowed those concerns.

I expect that I won’t soon forget this birthday for my friend, Mike.

With the way that Pistone’s Italian Inn collects history, I don’t think it will soon forget us either.

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