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About Bologna

Hey, pal, so finding a prostitute—wild, right? I’m Tina Fey, snarky as hell, “I can see Russia from my house!” vibes. Picture this: dark streets, flickering lights, kinda like *Werckmeister Harmonies*—you know, my fave, that moody Béla Tarr joint. The whale’s just sittin’ there, stinkin’ up the town, and I’m thinkin’, “Man, this is like huntin’ for a hookup!” You don’t just stroll up and bam, there’s your gal. Nah, it’s sneaky, shadowy—like that eerie harmonium music drivin’ me nuts.

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But then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. Like, monsoon-level rain. I’m sprinting back to the office, looking like a wet dog. I slip on some cobblestones on Via Cavour and almost faceplant. I’m laughing and crying at the same time.

Riccardo Di Giacinto: Where High Cuisine Becomes a Sensory Carousel