Getting In Was Half the Battle
Seriously, first tried calling the place last Wednesday. Rang like ten times then disconnected. Got annoyed. Pulled up Instagram, found their account buried in some Rome foodie hashtag. Messaged them like a maniac: “Yo, any tables Friday night? Trying to impress the wife!” Hours later, some dude named Marco replies in broken English: “8:30 okay? No earlier.” Snatched that slot faster than my mom grabbing sale pasta. Already felt like a win.
Walking In? Forgot the Pictures
Friday night rolls in. My wife’s rocking this dress she bought ages ago, hair all pinned up fancy. Streets around there? Smelled like some guy just sprayed garlic perfume everywhere. Saw the sign – small wooden thing, kinda faded. Peeked inside: brick walls covered in dusty wine bottles and yellowed photos of grumpy-looking Italians. Host guy frowned at us like we brought the plague when I mumbled our name. “Reservation? Five minutes. Stand there.” He pointed to this wobbly table right beside the clanging kitchen door. Thought about arguing, then saw my wife’s death stare. Shut up, sat down fast.
Food Happened (Finally)
Waiter slammed two menus down. Like actual bricks. Tiny print, stains everywhere. My wife squinted. I pretended to understand Italian words mixed in English. Settled on:
- Cacio e Pepe: Went safe. Knew the name at least.
- Some meatball thing with tomato sauce: Menu called it “Polpette Nonna.” Grandma’s balls? Alrighty then.
- Tiramisu: Had to. Saw it on five nearby tables already.
First bite of that Cacio e Pepe? Felt like chewing warm bubblegum. Cheese string stuck to my fork, my plate, my chin. Wife giggled. Tasted damn good though – salty, peppery, pure cheesy goo. Almost cried. The “grandma balls” came out steaming. Three huge hunks floating in oil slick. Grabbed my bread like a shovel, scooped sauce. Burned my tongue like an idiot. Worth it. Rich, meaty, made you wanna slap the table. Went full savage mode, dipped, slurped, got stains. Didn’t care.
Tiramisu landed like a boozy cloud. Spoon cut through it like butter on asphalt – way smoother than expected. Coffee soaked ladyfingers slapped my taste buds awake. Not too sweet. Just right. Wife stole half. Saw regret flash in her eyes when she realized I noticed.
Leaving With Opinions (And a Dented Wallet)
Paid the bill. Felt like someone kicked me lightly in the gut. Not crazy insane, but enough to make me question life choices. Walked out smelling like someone rubbed garlic bread all over my clothes.
So yeah. Was it authentic? Probably. Those flavours didn’t come from a dusty jar. Messy, chaotic, expensive… felt real. Saw families yelling in Italian, old guys arguing over wine bottles, that server ignoring us like an art form. Would I do it again? Maybe. Next anniversary? Probably try not sitting by the kitchen door. Worth it for that Cacio e Pepe alone. Made me wanna learn Italian just to tell their cook “That stuff? Heaven. Pure cheesy heaven.” But louder.
