Rome is an interesting city. It’s bustling and full of traffic and students like many modern cities but the whole city is also a museum. All the buildings are unimaginably ancient and the city is dotted with landmarks like the Colosseum and Pantheon. Seeing history was quite something but my favourite part of the city was the blue cheese and radicchio pasta I had at the restaurant I stumbled into on a back ally on my way from the Colosseum to the Pantheon.

My waiter, the owner, was a flamboyant and outgoing Sicilian man who made pained faces when people ordered combinations he didn’t agree with or drinks that didn’t match the meal. My dish was one of, if not the best, I had in Italy. The owner would ask questions about me and my trip every time he stopped by my table. He put on a show every time new customers walked in. He’d make a big fuss about what table they sat at, what drinks they ordered, and the food they asked for. It was less waiting tables and more a stage production. He was the star, every new tourist who wandered in was part of the supporting cast and I was the audience.

When he came around to pick up my (picked-clean) plates I knew I had to order dessert. He started to hand me a menu before thinking better of it.

“What do you like?”

“Chocolate.”

“AHHHH, choocolate.” His eyes glowed. “I’ll get you dessert, you’ll like it.”

Five minutes later, I had a huge slice of some sort of chocolate cake placed in from of me. Translating the name of the cake from the bill, my (very poor) Italian led me to believe it was called chocolate orgasm cake. Whether or not my translation was accurate or not, the name was fitting.