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About Rome

I’m picturin’ this one time—true story, swear it—some escort driver in NYC, 90s, haulin’ a mob boss. Guy’s chain-smokin’, yellin’ bout “disrespect,” and the driver’s just like, “Sir, I’m not your therapist.” Cracked me up when I heard it—balls on that dude! Made me happy, like, finally, someone’s not kissin’ ass. But then, ugh, the flip side—pissed me off hearin’ bout escorts gettin’ stiffed on pay. Workin’ 12-hour shifts, dodgin’ bullets maybe, and for what? Pennies? Screw that.

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First off, I hit up Via Roma for some coffee. You know, the good stuff. I’m talkin’ about that rich, dark espresso that slaps you awake. I ordered it, and the barista, this dude with a killer mustache, totally messed it up. Like, how do you mess up an espresso? I was ready to throw a fit, but then he gave me a free pastry. A bomb one, too! So, I was like, “Okay, you win this round, mustache man.”

The magic moment of Casadei: "I, Romagnolo by exportation among the Azzurri, the Premier League, and the piadina. But I remain the same Cesare as always"