A rainy night in Sydney. Humidity is off the Richter and my afro is swaying in the wind and glistening with the warm, greasy moisture of summer. But something crackles in the air, and going home ain't an option.
Just next to Pocket Bar, Fiore is small, bright, and pumping with action. Long-haired Italian waiters with smiles like the sun bustle this way and that toting mussels, exotic pasta, and a swordfish carpaccio that I wanted to take home and make an honest woman out of. The Sav Blanc I cooled down with was in a giant wine glass and must have been a pint of wine, it was huge. Love a generous fill, aw-rite.
I wanted to go join whichever table had the trays of grappa (limoncello? One of the two) headed for it. Next time. read more