Actually, I’ve eaten many things in my life. “But…” #1:

My boyfriend arrived late, everything was already closed and, having no other choice, because “Pacifico” is open until one a.m., we jumped off the cabrio, me in shorts/swimwear, my vis-à-vis in not very much more complicated outfits (thank God we were not wearing singlets!), ramming past the reception, shouting “we’re staying in here!” (what a shame), to the garden near the swimming pool/fountain.

I can’t tell you how terrified the hostess was.

Having left the car in the hotel’s valet-parking (the restaurant’s there), our trio easily overcame the external guard ring, and luckily there was no internal one.

“You can’t go in there! “Nobody with cats allowed!” (c) There are no free tables!” plaintively squeaked the hostess, who is not used to such Russian-style pressure of people eager to wolf something down in a place which they thought to be very regular.

“But we’re staying in here! Basta!”

The waiter, who immediately saw the situation clear, had us seated deep inside the house, far away from posh celebrities/eternal establishment, as it turned out in the end.

And he gave us a very confusing menu.

Everything on a double-spread sheet, the specialties on another double-spread as well.

We randomly order 7 positions. For three people.

We wait nervously and discontentedly.

They bring us a compliment: three marble thimbles again on marble and some stuff made of potato, with flowers.

Here is where the “but…” #2 begins:

First, an explosion. I mean, THE EXPLOSION. The moment the very first sip is taken.

Hot, sour, spicy… as if a wave came over and got away.

Afterwards, long afterwards, probably, even in twenty years, I’ll always start with a mere trying, dunking, licking, biting, swallowing, crunching, drinking and touching with my lips, just slightly touching everything that they’ll ever bring me.

There’s a war in the mouth, at least a revolution.

One side goes on the attack, then the other side defends, the grenades are flying around exploding in my palate, something being sweet rolls along the tongue, and then there comes crowd of instant shots: sour, hot, sour, hot, sweet again.

Each dish is surrounded by “the tiger milk” basis, “but…” #3:

This basis is endowed with attributes that are sometimes sweet, sometimes hot, sometimes spicy-neutral (can you imagine that?), and you drown in it your piece of pork, which initially, without any sauces, looks like a nut pie, so the gradients mix up first on your plate, then in your mouth. Subsequently, there’s an explosion again.

Two nights in a row out of two in Rome, where I naturally knew other places to go, I ate non-Italian food and waited for the night as I waited for Christmas in my childhood.