Pizza and Pasta and Pizza and Pasta

A fictional monologue about Italian food

By Abigail Strauss

When I first ate Italian food, it was heavenly. The taste—so fresh and light. The bread—so warm and filling. Pizza had never tasted so good. Afterwards, strolling through the meandering cobblestone streets, I came across a gelateria. A small cup of lemon gelato, so icy and tart, filled my senses. Calls of Italian bounced off the narrow streets as I wandered down the alleyways.

For dinner, I strolled along Santa Maria and stumbled upon a small restaurant. Wafts of sauces and pasta reached my nose, and I entered, almost in a trance. The pasta—cacio e pepe—was even better than the pizza, which had seemed impossible at the time. I ate my fill and set back out onto the streets, determined to find dessert. I found a small bakery, and it was there that I had the best cannoli of my life.

After a small yogurt for breakfast, I set out again. After exploring the Colosseum, I had worked up an appetite. I found another café and ordered pasta. It was delicious—but oddly, it tasted the same as last time. Asking the waiter brought a puzzled “How dare you?” The pasta, being so “different,” had bucatini—noodles with a hole through the center, unlike tonnarelli. Another cup of gelato, stracciatella this time, and I was on my way again.

I searched for a spot to have dinner, and once again, Italian food greeted me—a change from Roman, I thought. Walking in, I found a seat and looked at the menu. I called the waiter over and asked, “What is the difference between Pizza Napoletana and Pizza Margherita?” The answer? The crust is chewier with Margherita, and crispier with Napoletana.

“But aren’t they the same?” I asked.

“What do you mean? The difference is huge!”

I ate my slice slowly, grabbed some more gelato, and then took a taxi home.

The next day, suppli caught my attention—little fried balls of food. I took a bite and found cheesy rice inside. Delicious… if it weren’t for the fact that I’d been eating cheese and carbs for basically every meal! For dinner, now sick of pasta and pizza, I frantically consulted Google Maps, trying to find a place that didn’t serve anything Italian or Roman.

Finding a burger shop only three blocks away, I began speed-walking to my destination. It was late, and the suppli hadn’t been enough to fill me up. Restaurants passed me along the way—pasta, pizza, pasta, pizza, Italian. Roman! Italian! Roman! They swirled around me. I needed to escape. Anything but PASTA AND PIZZA!

I finally arrived, almost swooning with relief. I looked up at the door and saw a little sign that said Closed Indefinitely. I fell to my knees, yelling my woes to the heavens. My voice echoed through the streets, carrying the cries of a simple traveler who made the mistake of spending a month in Italy.

Personal Note:

Don’t get me wrong, Italian food is delicious. But by the end of our visit to Italy, we were all a little bit sick of pizza and pasta. We took a food tour in Rome, and found that there were all sorts of good Italian and Roman foods. We made bruschetta, tried suppli, had little plates of meat and cheeses, and it was all delicious. But it’s not just the food I love. Their language, winding streets, ruins, and art are so amazing, and I loved being there. I want to come back one day.