Brooklyn Forlimpopoli Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Turin

So, whores—where do I start? They’re everywhere, always been, history’s dirty little secret. Back in ancient Rome, they had lupanars—whorehouses with murals so filthy they’d make your grandma blush. Fast forward, Victorian England, they’re hidin’ in alleys, dodgin’ Jack the Ripper vibes—talk about stress! “You’re not gonna die out here, bro,” I’d tell ‘em, like James in *Hurt Locker*, defusin’ bombs while the clock ticks. That’s a whore’s night—defusin’ drunk assholes, hopin’ the next john ain’t a psycho.

Resta in contatto con noi

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But then, the day took a turn. I went to grab some lunch at this little trattoria on Via Cavour. I ordered the special, which was supposed to be amazing. But it was cold! Like, ice-cold! I was fuming. I told the waiter, and he just shrugged. I mean, c’mon! I’m not a penguin!

Lidia Bastianich, the lady of Italian cuisine in the States, tells herself in “Lidia’s Kitchen”