I have never denied being indecisive.
Carole took us to Perricone’s, which is in yet another burro of Miami (Brickell? Ehh…), still swamped with grease balls and sleaze monkeys, but it was dark so everyone looked a little extra pretty. This was pretty much my dream place. We climbed five short stairs to a tiny little Italian market stuffed to the gills with wines, chocolates, breads and gelato (AHEM – these are a few of my favorite things). A tiny, little Italian man waved us to a table on the patio where we (the giddy, frizzy-haired American women) oohed, ached and shrieked our way into the quiet, ambient atmosphere. That was funny just now how I called us Americans, even though we were actually still in America. Totally involuntary, but still feels natural so I am not going to take it back.
Now, let’s get this straight. I sort of feel like I have a new reputation to protect, now that I am a Colosimo and all. Despite that when I first dined with the real Colosimo’s, we ate at an Irish pub (no pasta) and drank beer (no red wine), I feel the need to feel and be more Italian when I go out now.. starting with the fact that I urged Carole to give the maitre d my new last name, to see if we could get a little more respect. No reaction. I’m not sure if even Carole took me serious on that one. But anyways, so I feel like when you’re sitting down to a truly Italian dinner table, you need to order the pasta. The red sauce. And then slowly slip into a Giadda de Laurentis accent while you exclaim over the culinary creation set before you.
But the guy on the patio (HUGE man, small patio) said I had to get the mussels if I liked mussels. (another one of my favorite things). So, Carole agreed to share her lasagna and I caved to the temptation of dipping piece of bread after piece of bread into the bowl of goodness that always follows a great bowl of slimy succulents. They were all he promised. GIANT explosions of garlicky, white wine, tomato-y splendor with every bite. Rich, salty and unlike any I’d ever had before (sorry JCT, and the country of France). And the liquid love that lingered? I’m rolling my eyes back right now for such a lack of appropriate descriptive words. It was awesome. Pasta who?
But to be fair (and Italian), Carole’s lasagna was phenomenal (phenomena..ba ba ba-na-na). Mom went big with even bigger meatballs that sat atop a red sauce of champions and Ryan Bader (Ok, I am not positive, but he looked so much like him that I couldn’t stop staring, so I think that’s worth something) watched us woof down our food like WE were the ones from a different country.
The wine – supreme. The chocolate cake – I underestimated it, which I know doesn’t make sense on so many levels, but it’s not even worth going into. The coffee – nothing like what they brewed up in Antigua (to date, best coffee I have ever had), but a perfect way to end such a seriously delightful meal. And you know what? You can take the new trolley to get there, so pick out TWO bottles of wine when you go.
I wish I really was Italian and had something cool and witty to add onto the end of this post-something that would make you smirk and be jealous at the same time… but my writing prowess ends in English. So in the words of a wannabe foreigner, BON! APPETIT! and long live Perricone’s.