A Tale of Tiny Steaks and Smaller Pastries

 Every year between Christmas and New Year's, my friends and I engage in what has become our sacred ritual: eating our way through Piedmont while pretending we're not just avoiding their in-laws. 

This year brought complications. Our usual pilgrimage site—Oropa, home to the best polenta concia and panna cotta in Italy, perched dramatically at 1,200 meters—was buried under snow. My friend’s husband knew a place near the city instead. 

The first red flag should have been obvious: they charge by the hour. Like a parking meter, but for eating. This is not how time works in Italy, or at least not how it’s supposed to work. We are not in Milan or Turin here.

We arrived to find ourselves in a sort of dining purgatory—waiting outside while they “opened a table,” which apparently involves more ceremony than you’d think. Within minutes, a line formed behind us, everyone eyeing each other like gladiators about to enter the arena.

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