a continuation of All Roads Do Not Lead to Rome
After sloshing through the sleet and slush among the stalls, we were hungry. Our handy-dandy tourist map indicated a few spots (indicated as Aperitivo) that might offer some choice amuse-bouches if not a square meal, but as it was too early for Italian dinner (7-ish), we had some difficulty locating an establishment that was indicated on the map AND already open to welcome us. Instead, we plonked down in a cafeteria for 1€50 marocchinos and a regrouping session over a few of the pastries we’d just bought . Mmmmm.
Back to the hotel, still drenched and cold and a little worse for wear–but nothing a glass of wine and half an hour of warming our tootsies by the heater couldn’t fix. We were considerably more cheerful and definitely warmer when we ventured out again for dinner at 9:30. Guiseppe (?) at the front desk directed us to just down the block, a place called Rossopomodoro on the Via 20 Settembre, which somehow we had missed on our miserable trek back. It turned out to be just about the classiest chain restaurant I have ever visited serving some equally marvelous pizza.
The pizza was crackly, aromatic, and lusciously gooey. Maybe it was just the wine talking, but it seemed like we had arrived at something authentic– not the kind of pizza that might harden to plastic in the morning, but the kind that leaves your fingertips dusted with flour and your eyelids heavy with indulgent bliss. The crust was hot, though not cooked through in the center of the pie, so we were obliged to engage with the strings of mozzarella that tangled and stretched between our fingers. I lost myself for a moment between the basil and the bacon, until I remembered I was still in public. Aaand scene.
All of us being bloggers (Lauren’s site–An American in Menton, Ciera’s site–Aventures D’Une Petite Fille) we broke out the cameras and went snap-happy for a little, garnering perturbed stares from a few other diners. But if that wasn’t enough, our matchy-matchy blondish hair, solid-color sweaters, scarves, and obvious giggling à l’américaine gathered a little more attention than we intended: when gathering his things to leave, a man at a table near us told us his company had a bet going to see where we are from. He thought Connecticut. Still don’t know what to make of that one…
Happy and full, we walked back to the good ol’ Napoleon.