An Evening Well-Spent in Florence

March 26, 2009
9am, Train to Rome

Our supper the first night in Florence was divine. After collecting 2 maps--by which I mean Brent purchased a 12euro guidebook, while I pocket the map inside the guidebook on display (my first experience with outright stealing)--we wandered down a street beside the massive Santa Maria Novella church and found a nice touristy place to have a nice long touristy dinner.

With Americans on one side and Germans on another, we felt quite at home in this place and ordered ourselves bruschetta, pastas amatriciana e bolognese, an a liter of the house wine (a chianti) for 11euros, which Brent promised to drink with me despite his brutish aversion to wine, even of the red variety.

The bruschetta was a little disappointing at first, given that in Italy, where the food is pure, bruschetta is just chopped tomatoes on toasted bread. But with Brent's salad came olive oil and balsamic vinegar of Modena which immensely enhanced our experience of the bruschetta. Meanwhile, the liter of house wine had come in a ceramic jug, which Brent poured for us in what I considered meager portions, given both my eagerness to drink it and the volume that remained. The pasta I ate there was without a doubt the best I have ever eaten: perfectly cooked penne with a creamy tomato sauce, parmiggiana, and bacon.

Toward the end of our dining experience (at which point I had finished four or five glasses to Brent's 3/4) an LA Woman arrived alone and proceeded to ask the entire restaurant staff if they remembered her. As the story goes, she had visited the same restaurant a year ago and taken a picture with or maybe just of an attractive younger waiter with blue eyes. As no such waiter existed, her current waiter disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the waiter to which she had been referring, who had brown eyes, not blue.

As her loud conversation continued, we learned that among her friends in LA, a collection of approximately 35 year old bachelorettes, the falsely blue-eyed waiter was something of a popular heart throb. We also learned that she had gone out this night with the full intention of dining at this restaurant, which she had missed by walking on the wrong side of the street. But she promised to return for lunch the next day.

After she had gone, our waiter bemusedly admitted that they see 500+ patrons per day, so of course they didn't remember her--how could she possibly expect it? He also told me my accent was very good and gave me some tips. At the time I was flattered but now I am fairly certain that he was just complimenting my wallet.

Brent and I considered returning to lunch again, this time strolling in gallantly and in a valley girl affectation proclaiming, "I have returned a day later to my favorite restaurant! Don't you remember me!?"

After dinner we headed straight back to our hostel, eager to rest up for the long days of tourism ahead of us. Brent will tell you that I flipped through the channels on TV, searching for Italian porno, and despite his warning and pleading, fell asleep within two minutes without turning off the television. But I cannot vouch for him. Though I will admit that--so far--Italian porn eludes us.