"There it was, Ristorante Machiavelli—exactly the red sauce joint I had been looking for. It was still early and the sun was out, but Machiavelli was dark inside and already filled with people waiting for tables. It was loud and smelled intensely of garlic and onions. A single bartender stirred a martini with a twist. A server left a heaping bowl of Parmesan with a solo diner. We looked at the menu, and there were all our old friends: bresaola alla Valtellinese, conchiglie della casa, tiramisù. I started laughing. It was almost too familiar. Was this real? Did we step into some vortex that delivered us back to New Jersey, Chianti bottles with melted wax and all?" - ByAlex Pemoulie