The Pasta Disaster in Rome

Last summer, I (26M) went on my first solo trip to Italy. I had one goal: eat *authentic* Italian pasta — not the overcooked spaghetti I make at home.

On my second night in Rome, I found this tiny trattoria tucked in a cobblestone alley. It looked perfect — checkered tablecloths, old wine bottles on the shelves, and a man playing accordion outside.

I sat down and confidently said,
“**Spaghetti, per favore!**”

The waiter raised an eyebrow. “Which spaghetti?”
“Uh… the normal one?” I replied.

He rolled his eyes but smiled and brought me a huge steaming plate.

The first bite? Pure heaven. The second bite? Amazing. The third bite? A little too exciting — because my fork flung a perfectly sauced noodle across the table and directly onto the shirt of the tourist sitting next to me.

I froze. The man looked down at his shirt, looked up at me, and then… *laughed*.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” he said. “It’s Italy. It’s *fashion* now.”

But it didn’t stop there. When I tried to twirl my next bite properly like the locals, my fork slipped, the noodle whipped up, and a chunk of sauce hit the waiter’s apron.

The accordion guy started laughing so hard he nearly dropped his instrument.

By the end of the night, everyone in the restaurant was cheering me on, yelling “**Forza! Forza!**” as if I was in a spaghetti-twirling competition.

I left the trattoria with a stained shirt, a free glass of wine, and my dignity only *slightly* intact — but I also left with a story that still makes me laugh every time I eat pasta.