Let’s go to Paris. We’ll shred our puffer coats—those ambulatory sleeping bags that we’ve all been wearing for the past six months—hop the next Paris-bound flight at JFK and make a plan when we get
When a line snakes out the front of a Roman pizzeria, that’s a good thing. During Brooke’s year in Rome (don’t ask the year… it was before the Euro), she’d plan her Friday nights around
Brooke’s very in-the-know best friend, Ellen, hit the jackpot by marrying a handsome Italian and moving to Rome. (Hey, it has to happen to someone…) Their date night locales, frequently near the Piazza d’ Spagna
If Trattoria Monti and their celebrated ‘tortini’ were good enough for Frank Bruni, they were good enough for us. But let’s back up a bit…We never would have discovered Trattoria Monti if it weren’t for
Bucatini all’amatriciana virtually courses through the veins of Romans. Aside from their love affair with innards (tripe, stomach, kidneys), Romans love nothing more than a hot bowl of bucatini bathed in a lightly spiced tomato