Manic Florence

The last time we came to Italy, I had to bail on the trip early to go back to Paris and work. Alannah continued on with my mom and aunts whom – while nice – are about as fun to travel with at three older Japanese ladies can be. Which isn't to say that they're lousy company. On the contrary, they're fantastic. But they're of the see-every-monument-and-museum mindset.

When she found an unsecured Wifi connection, Alannah got on to Facebook and posted:

Without constant November rain & with my sweetheart, Firenze is a bit more enjoyable than last time (view from my bed) http://img.ly/1rqg

I hope she was talking about me.  Inspired by her picture-says-a-thousand-words mentality (and because I rambled on and on and on in the last post) I present to you the expected sadness and the surprising joy that Florence has brought in the last couple of days.

Being in an area packed with tourist-trap restaurants makes us sad.

The poorly timed thunderstorms make me sad.

Sudden sunshine and having to borrow cheap ladies' sunglasses makes me sad.

Going from rainy to hot-enough-to-instantly-melt-your-gelato makes Alannah sad.

Some loud Spanish puta getting in the way of all my shots because her
dumb ass kept dropping her coat in puddles makes me mad.

Sharing an ice cold Duff beer with my cousin makes me happy.

Peering out the window and seeing our neighbors drying bacon and other
piggy products makes me happy. And hungry.

Boiled beef (bollito) or tripe (lampredotto) panini at Nerbone make me happy.
Especially with a carafe of wine for breakfast.

Bistecca a la Fiorentina makes us 1 kilo and 50 grams happier.
(We shared it.)

Making dinner for the family makes me really happy.
(And hopefully them, too!)

Being the dynamic duo of Aunt Alannah and Uncle Omid makes us happy.

But above all, seeing my gal happy makes me happy.

I'm going to bed. Happy.

The Honeymoon is Over

No, not with my beloved.

No, not with Paris.

I mean that infernal Fire & Stone restaurant.

Good price be damned, it just isn't worth the minimum six times I've sat on the crapper since singing the praises of such a cheap steak dinner.

Lesson learned: You get what you pay for.

Thank goodness the hotel has extra rolls of toilet paper...

Coldstone It Ain't

Friday night.

People took off early from work.

Club flyers are plastered on the cars.

Well-dressed suburbanites are rushing to the metro for drinks, dancing, and god knows what else.

And here I am, in my hotel room, tapping away on my keyboard.

It's a sad existence, this living-in-a-suburban-hotel gig. But worthless American dollars be damned, I was on a mission to do something. So I walked the streets of Clichy, searching out a restaurant. It's payday after all, so I can afford to splurge a bit, n'est-ce pas?

I walked around in a huge circle, finding nothing but shitty faux Chinese traiteurs and the same dingy, fluorescent-lit brasseries I did last time around. For the umpteenth time, I walked by a place called Fire & Stone Grill, a place that - no matter how many times I saw it - I've avoided like the plague for the name alone. But this time, I went in. Drawn in by the fantastic smell of grilling steak and the reasonable menus, I couldn't help but be seduced by the prospect of meat.

The atmosphere was jovial, but it depressed me. Enveloped by the sound of my favorite kitschy 80's tunes, I felt much rather like dancing with someone I loved than sitting down to what might be a questionable meal. And by the looks of it, it was date night in Clichy. An old couple - apparently regulars - next to me. A middle-aged married couple who seemed to be having a make-up dinner across the dining room from me. A young, interracial couple - so obviously in love - across from me. With my place-setting for one.

I immediately ordered a bourbon. A big, fat tumbler of it to drown my sorrows.

As the distilled spirits made their way into my bloodstream, I looked around and smiled. It won't be long before my honey is here, and we can have date night every night. I hit the bottom of my glass and felt all warm and fuzzy. Then I ordered steak.

But first, the buffet. While not the most appealing spread ever, there were enough cold fish and meats and cheese to make any viking happy. I went straight for the vegetables.

Huh!?

In my scrimping and saving and scrounging, my stomach has shrank. And even though I stood before a Texas-sized spread of appetizers, I now have a French-sized appetite. I decorated my little plate with beets, lentil salad, tomato salad, some red radishes... all the hallmarks of some hippie vegan meal.

All the better. My meat arrived, a big, bloody hunk of rumpsteak, sitting atop a superheated marble-slab. Apparently, at Fire & Stone, your steak is always cooked to order. Because you cook it. I let it cook for about a minute on each side, and dove in. Nice and blue. A few minutes later, it was perfectly à point. Midway through, it was the American version of medium rare. Alas, I ate too slowly, enjoying my side of potatoes and abundant bread, and my last portion was criminally medium. But I enjoyed it nonetheless.

The price? Not including the bourbon and obligatory after-dinner coffee, €15.50. For the first time in a week, this expression entered my mind: Tremendous value.

If I ever get my American-sized appetite back, I'm coming back here to lay waste to the buffet. They're open for dinner from seven 'til midnight, meaning I can sit and stuff my face for five hours solid. But in the meantime, having a reasonable portion was enough to fill the gaping void inside of me.