This is the most exquisitely expensive drink I have ever had the pleasure of spending money on.
It cost twice as much as dinner.
But, oh, was it worth it.
The waiter wore a bow tie. He poured the
prosecco over the crushed strawberries with grace and submerged the stirrer in sparkling water before swirling it in my glass.
Prego, signorina. I can hardly believe a colour this rich -- not red, not pink -- doesn't have its own name. It deserves volumes of poetry. But
rossini sounds right, with
rosso and
rosa echoing inside the affectionate diminutive.
The disarming beauty of this drink, of this elegant café, of the cascading cadences of this language, is why JE and I came to Turin. Our pictures from the weekend are a catalogue of beautiful food and drink. Fancy treats, like the Rossini, but also simpler ones, like this asparagus pizza at a rowdy
focacceria.
Back in Nice, I leafed through that book by Elizabeth Gilbert that you've all read.
"There are so many manifestations of pleasure in Italy.... You have to kind of declare a pleasure major here, or you'll get overwhelmed. That being the case, I didn't get into fashion, or opera, or cinema, or fancy automobiles, or skiing in the Alps. I didn't even want to look at that much art.... I found that all I really wanted was to eat beautiful food and to speak as much beautiful Italian as possible. That was it. So I declared a double major, really -- in speaking and eating (with a concentration on gelato)."
A double major in speaking and eating, with a minor in fancy
aperitivos? Sign me up.
Nice is trying hard to have a winter. There are (real) pine trees everywhere, stands selling mulled wine in the Christmas market, an outdoor skating rink.
I just hope the fake snow doesn't melt before Christmas.
