“Breakfast of champions,” I say to the kid sitting at the next table. We’re in the hospital bar. It’s nine in the morning. I’m here with my wife, who’s going to have some stitches pulled. (She fell down a stairs, sliced her knee, broke her wrist. No, we say when someone asks, and everyone seems to ask, I didn’t do it.) The boy takes a big bite from his breakfast pizza, tomato and cheese, and leans toward his father, who’s […]
For dinner one night we find our way to Casa del Sole. It’s a country house outside of Pesaro. We’re 15-20 miles inland, where the gentle hills rising to Urbino begin, far enough from the sea to know we’ll be eating meat. “We haven’t been to this place before,” my wife’s cousin says. “But my sister has,” his wife adds. “Si mangia bene.” That’s good enough for us.