7.5 / 10 Comedyroma... -

The romantic tension he’d been nurturing all day finally snapped, replaced by the hysterical realization that they were two exhausted tourists in a damp basement, eating pig fat and drinking vinegar.

By 9:00 PM, they were lost. The GPS on Arthur’s phone had succumbed to the narrow, cobblestone labyrinths that seemed to shift whenever he looked away. They weren't at a five-star terrace; they were standing in front of a garage door guarded by a three-legged cat. 7.5 / 10 ComedyRoma...

The comedy of their marriage usually lived in the gaps between their expectations. Arthur wanted the postcard; Clara wanted the dirt under the fingernails. When the carbonara arrived, it wasn't a delicate swirl of pasta. It was a mountain of rigatoni, yellow as a school bus and glistening with enough guanciale fat to lubricate a mid-sized sedan. The romantic tension he’d been nurturing all day

Arthur believed that three days in Rome could fix a decade of polite silence. He had planned everything: the sunset at Janiculum Hill, the private tour of the Pantheon, and a curated list of the city’s most pretentious wine bars. What he hadn’t planned on was Clara’s sudden, inexplicable obsession with finding the "authentic" Rome. They weren't at a five-star terrace; they were

"I think this is it," Clara said, pointing to a chalkboard that simply read MAGNA .

"Arthur, this menu has a picture of a pizza on it," Clara whispered, her voice tight with judgment. "We are in the Prati district. There should be a nonna in the back crying over a pot of sauce, or I’m not eating."