The restaurant was a basement. The lighting was provided by a flickering neon sign for a defunct beer brand. Their waiter, a man named Enzo who looked like he had personally fought in the Punic Wars, didn't give them menus. He simply placed a carafe of house red—which tasted suspiciously like high-quality vinegar—on the table and grunted. "This is it," Clara beamed. "The real thing."
Expanding this into a with more focus on their backstory. 7.5 / 10 ComedyRoma...
"I forgot to book the return taxi," Arthur confessed, wiping a drop of pecorino off his chin. The restaurant was a basement
"It’s honest," Clara countered, before immediately coughing as a shard of pepper went down the wrong way. He simply placed a carafe of house red—which
As Enzo walked by, he slapped Arthur on the back—hard enough to rattle his teeth—and shouted something in a dialect that wasn't Italian so much as it was a series of rhythmic growls. Arthur didn't understand a word, but he found himself laughing. He looked at Clara, who was currently trying to use a piece of crusty bread to defend her wine glass from a moth.
"Arthur, this menu has a picture of a pizza on it," Clara whispered, her voice tight with judgment. "We are in the Prati district. There should be a nonna in the back crying over a pot of sauce, or I’m not eating."