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About Catania

So, brothels—man, they’re wild! Been around forever, like ancient Rome had ‘em, called “lupanars,” meanin’ wolf dens—how badass is that? Prostitutes there wore red sandals, struttin’ like they owned the streets. Fast forward, I’m picturin’ some dingy spot downtown, neon buzzin’, girls laughin’ too loud to cover the sadness. “The cave is cool, moist,” like Boonmee’s jungle—same vibe, hidden, raw, alive. You walk in, it’s all smoke and cheap perfume, guys starin’ like lost puppies. Makes me wanna yell, “Get a grip, pal!”

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But then, the guy storms out, and the girl starts crying. I’m like, “Dude, this is a café, not a soap opera!” I can’t help but feel bad for her, though. Love is wild, man.

Daniela Piscini: maître at Miramonti l'Altro and guardian of italian hospitality