Firenze

A friend of mine once said, "There are so many beautiful women in this city. I fall in love every minute."

Lately I've been having the same fortune (or problem, depending on how you look at it). I've always been boy crazy, just ask my mom, but this spring I've been particularly overzealous. I fall in love with men reading on the subway, playing basketball at the gym, throwing rugby balls in Sheep's Meadow, sipping beers at the Boat Basin, ordering drip coffees from Starbucks, cycling in full spandex in Central Park and on a Wednesday night in March, I fell in love with a Scotsman playing the bagpipes.

Dad bought us tickets to go see the Pipes and Drums of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards at the Met. My family is mildly obsessed with bagpipes. I can't sit through a single note without getting the goosebumps over my entire body. I just started playing "Amazing Grace" from my iTunes, in my bed as I type this, and bam! They hit me. Forget about "Auld Lang Syne." Virginia's "The Good Old Song" is sung to the tune of "Auld Lang Syne" and both hold a very dear and special place in my heart.

It was the spring of 1997. I was a few months away from high school graduation. I applied early to UVA and did not get in, meanwhile another girl in my high school did. I was a devastated wreck. I received the news over Thanksgiving '96 and my mom still refers to it as one of the worst weekends of her life. "It was as if somebody had died," she always says.

Fast forward three or four months. I'm upstairs in my bedroom, scrambling on some history paper for Mr. Mosley and suffering from an acute bout of senioritis. I get summoned downstairs, figuring I was probably in trouble for something my brother did. All of the sudden I hear "Auld Lang Syne" bagpipes blaring from the family room stereo. After the wave of goosebumps hit, the tears started flowing. It could only mean one thing. I had been accepted. Since my dad's an alumnus, they notified him personally that his daughter made the cut this time. Still, to this day, that moment-- the bagpipes, jumping and screaming and crying with my family like we had just won the lottery-- it was one of the best moments of my life.

The concert in the Met's Temple of Dendur was surreal. What an awesome place for a concert. Ladies, there is nothing better than Scottish men in uniform playing the bagpipes and drums. I couldn't stop drooling and neither could my mom. After the show, some of the guards were mingling with the crowd. One of the eight or so bagpipe players was walking directly in front of me and I might as well have been standing next to Brad Pitt. I was dying to speak and tell him how much I enjoyed the concert. After trying to come up with something somewhat intelligent to say I blurted, "Where are you headed?"

In his thick Scottish accent he replied with a big smile, "Out for a smoke."

"You can smoke and still play the bagpipes?" I was shocked.

"Oh yeah, been smoking for almost 18 years. Been playing the bagpipes for just about that long as well."

"Dang! That is impressive!" Or disturbing. I'm not sure which. He looked like he was about my age. I hope he hadn't been smoking since he was 10.

He started gabbing with another fan in front of us and that was it. We grabbed our coats from the coat check and dad was hightailing it to Madison Avenue. I was trying to take my excessive time as I kept an eye on where my boy was. The whole band was huddled outside the museum chatting about their performance and smoking quickly before their second show. I noticed him looking at me and watching me leave and I sent him a smile. Darn, I hope he didn't think Uncle Butzy was my date.

When we got to the crosswalk it hit me. I should have asked the guys where the party was after the show. If I sent a text message with the words "Scottish men in uniform," about 12 of my girlfriends would drop everything they were doing and be at my side in no time. It would have been quite an evening. Mom was all about it and told me to go back and ask. Dad was in shock at how utterly crazy his two women were. Brian, whose famous line, "Mona, your love life just about has no credibility," was also wondering how we could possibly be related. My fear and unprecedented timidity got the best of me that night and we headed for dinner.

I think the upper east side, particularly in the 80s, is a foodie's no man's land. I lived on York Avenue for a year and can think of no noteworthy restaurants I tried in my neighborhood. When my dad told me where we were going, and I started seeing familiar signs like Mad River, Tin Lizzie, Brady's (the bar that renamed itself Manning's the weekend of the Super Bowl) and other watering holes I land in occasionally, I started getting worried, I mean, really worried.

"Where are you taking us, Dad?"

"Firenze. It got great reviews!" My dad is pretty religious about checking Zagat's before he goes anywhere. He's almost too good and it gets a little intimidating sometimes. Just the other day he called P.J. Carney's "tacky." We can't have J.G. Melon or P.J. Clarke's all the time, Dad.

"On 82nd and Second? Dad, you must be joking. There is nothing worthwhile on this block," I said.

Two minutes later I was eating my words and some soft and doughy focaccia.

I have never been so fiercely flabbergasted by a restaurant as I was with Firenze. I walked in to this small, cavernous, charming, candlelit dining room and I felt like I had discovered an oasis in the Sahara. All I kept thinking to myself was "Oh my God. Oh my god. Oh my god!" The maitre d' whisked us off to our table after a very warm welcome and I walked to the table checking everyone out. Who were these wise men and women who knew about this place and why was I the last one to know?

I dug into the focaccia on the table and didn't stop until my entree arrived. There was olive oil on the table to dip it in but the bread was so moist it didn't need any.

We ordered a salad of parmesan, prosciutto and pear. The presentation itself was beautiful. It was like a fountain of salad. I snatched a small bite from Uncle Butzy and the bibb was crisp and the prosciutto was soft. I'd never had pear and prosciutto together but it's my new favorite combo of salty and sweet. This will be a good alternative to melon and prosciutto which I'm not very fond of.

Dad ordered clams sauteed in wine, tomato and basil. These were probably my favorite clams ever. The marinara was perfect.

Mom's fried eggplant with mozzarella was intense as an appetizer, but I couldn't stop eating it. The eggplant stood up well to the cheese and tomato sauce. Normally this dish can get really soggy but Firenze's maintained a tasty firmness.



After much prodding and persuasion from my parents, I ordered the bistecca alla fiorentina, or Tuscan-style porterhouse steak served with sauteed spinach. They couldn't believe I was 28 and had never tried this Italian staple. Now was the time. It was the biggest slab of meat I've ever seen and I've seen my fair share of massive steaks. I think the waiter wanted to marry me right then and there when I placed my order. When it arrived at the table I needed a crane to lift if from the plate to my mouth. The meat was juicy and packed with flavor and I had three solid nights of leftovers.


Uncle Butz ordered shrimp with risotto. He only had a few shrimps so I didn't get to try one, though I did dig my fork into the risotto. It had a crunchy texture to it.


Mom ordered the vitello alla Toscano, or Milanese-style veal topped with sauteed wild mushrooms...


and Dad went for his new favorite fish the branzino or Mediterranean striped bass, sauteed in white wine, lemon, fresh chopped tomatos and tiny sliced scallions.

Everyone raved about his or her dinner. Forks were flying and bites were being swapped all over the place. Our server came over several times to check and make sure everyone was happy and not once could we speak. We were too busy stuffing our faces.

"How is everything?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Mmm. Soommm Goommm."

I tried to enforce the "no dessert" clause, but my dad insisted on us ordering not one, but two. We chose the frutti di bosco with this crazy Mascarpone cheese on top. The coolest thing about it was the waiter whipped it up right in front of us and literally dumped huge dollops on our plates over the berries.

Don't be fooled into thinking you're eating healthy by ordering fruit. Just look at the fruit drowning in the cream. It was too much for me.


The cutest display of the whole evening was the tiramisu. Someone was having a little too much fun (or grappa) in the pastry kitchen. The butterfly of berry syrup surprisingly tasted really good with the moist coffee treat.

If you live on the upper east side, if you're looking for a romantic dinner, if you're with your family, if you're craving authentic, earthy Italian cuisine, go to Firenze. It is a refreshing escape from the onslaught of Irish dime-a-dozen pubs on the upper east side. To me, Firenze was the poor(er) man's Il Mulino. Dinner was an event and the staff treated us like royalty. The dishes were almost as rich in portion and flavor as Il Mulino's. I felt like I was eating a meal that would make my grandfather or any Italian relative proud. The fact that it's not a critic's pick on NewYorkMag.com makes me wonder.

After dinner, I decided to take fate into my own hands and hastily return to the Met, since it was on my way home (wink wink). Maybe I would catch the bandmembers packing up and hauling off to their hotel. I'm not sure what I intended to say to them, but Uncle Butzy walked with me for moral support and was thoroughly amused by my absurd quest.

When we arrived at the Met, it was a ghost town. There wasn't a single person inside or in front of the museum. You would have never guessed there had been two sold out concerts there that night. Rats. I missed the bus.

For the next several days I read all I could about the guards, their band and the rest of their massive USA tour. LarchmontLass supported my idea of going to their Sunday concert in Stamford, Conn. I could be the bagpiper's equivalent of a Band-Aid, though Pipe-Aid doesn't really have the same ring to it.

I decided to leash my looniness and instead of going to the concert, I found a fan group on Facebook (the next best thing) and left a message about how much I loved the show:

just saw them at the met and they were amazing. wish i could see them again. i've fallen in love with a tall redheaded bagpipe player. we spoke for two minutes and i will now regret for the rest of my life not seeing where him and his crew were going out after their two shows. they seemed like a great, fun group of gentlemen.


A few weeks went by and I'd forgotten about the Scotsman, having fallen in love several times since then. Until this:

Hi M-!
My name's Andy and I'm a drummer in the pipe band that you went to see perform. Just by chance, I saw this group on Facebook and I read your comment. Unfortunately I'm not your tall redheaded piper but I think you may have spoken to Steven. He doesn't have a Facebook I'm afraid. I hope you enjoyed the show as well as the talent ;-)

I fell out of my chair at work. I screamed. I laughed. I screamed again until everyone at work was trying to understand what was going on. Forget Facebook. I'm calling it Fatebook. I tried describing the turn of events to friends and the resounding response was, "Only you, M-."

I don't know how the story ends. I'm now friends with Andy on Facebook, but I never heard from Steven. Perhaps he's married with children. No matter his relationship status, it's still exciting to be in contact with one of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards in the Pipes and Drums band that my family is so enamored with.

I fell in love twice that evening in March-- once with a stranger and once with a new friend. I have no regrets.

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