Forget the museums. I came for the food.
There is no such thing as a bad meal in this country. I’m convinced of it.
Rome
I ate carbonara in a tiny trattoria where the owner yelled at a tourist for asking for parmesan. "It is pecorino or nothing." He was right. I’ve never tasted anything so simple and so perfect. Eggs. Cheese. Guanciale. Pepper. That’s it. Magic.
Florence
I stood at a counter with a glass of red wine and ate a lampredotto sandwich. It’s the fourth stomach of a cow, slow-cooked until it falls apart. Sounds terrible. Tastes like heaven. The locals were laughing at my face when I took the first bite. They knew.
Naples
The pizza changed me. Not the fancy stuff. A margherita from a place with paper plates and plastic cups. The crust was burnt in spots, soft in others. The cheese was actual pools of liquid. I sat on a curb and ate it with my hands like I had somewhere to be. I didn’t.
The Real Lesson
The best meals weren't on Instagram. They were down side streets. In places with no English menu. Where the nonna is in the back and you just point at what the guy next to you is eating.
Eat the thing you can’t pronounce.
Drink the house wine.
Take the second espresso standing at the bar.
Italy isn’t a country. It’s a long, beautiful excuse to be hungry.
Now I’m home. And nothing tastes the same.
Go. Eat. Thank me later.