Like money burning a hole in my pocket, there's something I'm itching to tell you. Here it is.
Everyone claims the food in Italy is oh so delicious. The Pasta. The Pizza. The Gelato. It's different in Italy. "Yea sure" I've always thought, dismissing these claims, fully expecting the overhype to promise nothing but disappointment.
I was so wrong. Every pasta dish is served straight from the stove—still in the pan—because the seconds-long transfer to a plate would irreparably compromise the integrity of its freshness. Then, poured over the pasta is a creamy, buttery sauce richer than a white chocolate river flowing with currents of caramel. The combination releases more flavor than a five-story high filet mignon burger on handmade sourdough bread topped with 42 different varieties of condiments from 13 different countries.
I'll explain it this way: For decades and decades, runners attempted to run a 4-minute mile. The feat however proved too difficult, even for the world's fastest legs. Eventually in 1954, Roger Bannister accomplished the impossible: his 3:59:40 record would surely stand for a long, long time. Wait no, two months later his record was broken. The following year, it was broken three more times.
How can that be? That's how it feels eating Italian pasta. You taste it and think "it can't get better than this". Then at the next restaurant "oh shit, they've done it again". Imagine a wooden fencepost stuck in a field, reaching all the way down to the Earth's core, with a concrete base to secure it in place, immovable. That post represents how good the pasta tastes. Then the Italians come along and with just a pinch of their index finger and thumb, they lift the post out of the ground—as if plucking out a dandelion—and move it just a little bit further down the way.
In one particular restaurant, we had an interesting experience. Three amigos from Mexico walk in and are introduced like John Cena entering the ring at a WWE event. "Mexicoooooo!!" the owners yell while applauding, cueing the rest of the restaurant to join in on the celebration. We do.
In another corner of the same restaurant, a couple finishes up their respective pasta dishes. On their table sits a silver saucer, half-full of grated Parmesan cheese. Unsatisfied with their cheese consumption, one owner silently yet suddenly appears beside them and proceeds to scoop the remaining cheese onto their plates for them to eat. They do.
Our section's waiter was also a character. After someone leaked that we hailed from New York, he launched into a one-man show acting out the daily life of a New Yorker. "Bye mommy, bye daddy" he'd exclaim before miming pressing the button for an elevator, stepping inside the lift, and riding it "up 100 floors to the top of a skyscraper, wow!". His tone struck a confusing balance between delight and mockery. Throughout our meal, he put on a matinee and two evening performances for us, and each show grew more and more animated. Luckily for us, we caught him as he left his dressing room just outside the theater for a photo.
