"Overjoyed, Enraptured, Entranced"

Jordan and I have a glass (or two) of wine at his place. Anxious for the dinner supposedly awaiting us at La Giostra, we try to take the edge off. A two minute walk down the street and we find ourselves inside the tavern-like space, with white Christmas lights beautifully out of place, twinkling around the wooden beams of the ceiling. As we casually glance over the menu, already knowing exactly what to order, an Australian couple sitting directly next to us leans over, gesturing helpfully at their warm appetizers—“They bring you a huge plate of cheeses and meats, so be careful!” They laugh, looking down at the large quantities of abandoned food on their plates.

I immediately get on with the sommelier—he loves me after I attempt, in my rudimentary Italian, to chat with him about the wine list. Next, the waiter convinces Jordan and I into the classic Bistecca Fiorentina to share, in addition to the Pear and Cheese Ravioli.

Indeed, when the appetizer plate arrives, it fills the table—with salted meats that coat your tongue, crisp bruscetta, and the classic Florentine delicacy, pollo fegato (chicken liver) on toast, which Jordan meekly slides in my direction. A chunkier version of the chopped liver I ate every Jewish holiday in my Grandma’s posh living room, I happily oblige.

The Pear ravioli—well, I fear that nothing I write could capture the way you chew the homemade pasta until the entire raviolo begins to melt in your mouth, revealing the sweet pear pureed and whipped into the light cheese, leaving only a tiny tickle of the sweet fruit flavor on the center of your tongue, the smell of ricotta wafting over the table, side smiles cracking.

When the steak finally arrived, it seemed as if an entire cow had been happily led to our table, plopping down on its enormous silver platter. Thick cut, juicy, and flavorful, Jordan and I began in silence, pausing only to drink the light and tannic red wine or to pick at the accompanying caramelized carrots and home fry style potatoes. After some time had passed we leaned back in our chairs with labored breath, smiling over the now meager leftovers.

We were in practically in a stupor by the time Francesco, out waiter, slowly placed desert in front of us, as the sommelier simultaneously surprised us with a sweet Muscat, almost thick when poured into the small square glasses. The tart lemon sorbet cleansed and contrasted with the wine, while the whipped, creamy, tiramisu was both light and unbelievably rich all at once.

We stumbled home, hours after out arrival—the sommelier practically helping me out the door, as he called after us, “Return again! Ritorniate, per favore!”