As soon as we checked into our small two-star hotel in Rome, I asked the young girl at the desk, “Where is the best pizza in Trastevere?” She wrote a word that looked like “Venenzio” on a hot pink Post-it.
Is that a hint of a breeze I felt in the dank air, too? The weather was supposed to be changing. I felt hopeful in the garden. And I decided there was a culinary pleasure that would finish the job of pulling me out of my funk: a pistachio biscotti at Cousin John’s Bakery in Park Slope.