I had been wanting to visit Ben’s Chili Bowl ever since Anthony Bourdain went there. Luckily, it wasn’t hard to convince my dad–not to mention the rest of a partial family reunion–to come along for the ride.

The “half smokes” are the main event here: a half pork, half beef smoked sausage. Here they are calling my name out as we walked in the door.

I’ve never met a chili dog I didn’t like, and these were no exception. On the other hand, they didn’t seem drastically different from any other dog, despite what Bourdain had to say. After downing our dogs, we headed across town to the Nationals game. Here we are on our way in.

Ok, maybe there’s one way we could have amped up the America factor: if this guy had showed up:

The restaurant was Osteria del Treno, apparently known for their association with the Slow Food movement. It was very meaty.

This pasta involved some sort of anchovy sauce. Very salty. Every time I look at this photo, my mouth waters at the memory.

Beef cheek. Even for me, this was a massive serving of meat. I had to say basta before I could get through it all.

I owe my return trip to not only Rob, but also my employer, who paid for my iPhone usage during my trip. This enabled me to Google “fried mini calzones” while we were in the area. A few minutes later, I was reliving my memory. Only difference: this time, the Coke was a Diet.

I had forgotten how much these things actually smell like donuts. You almost expect a sugary taste. This was one of the last meals this trip. I guess it’s not surprising that my pants were starting to feel a little tight by the time we got home.

Here we have Frida’s generously sized negroni, ideally suited to a long stretch of grazing on potato chips and mini-sandwiches.

Once again, we broke the rules by sitting in this area that turned out to be reserved. Oh well, it had nice light and we can’t read the Italian on those little tent cards.

The Obika Mozzerella Bar had one of the more impressive (and most frequently replenished) apertivo selections. We took advantage, to the tune of about three servings. Dinner followed, naturally.

Our fanciest apertivo was probably the one at Ricci Milano. Our €10 drinks bought us access to prosciutto, pizza, mini calzones, and little sausage balls. Not a bad way to unwind after a day at the office.

This dish is called stinco di maiale al forno. When the waiter tried to describe it in limited English, he pointed at his calf. According to Google Translate, it means “knuckle of pork,” but another web site called it a shank. Anyway, it’s leg-related. I especially appreciated the prominent bone, just in case you forgot you were in a carnivorous zone.

Eliza had pumpkin ravioli, which was lovely, if a little lacking in its meat quotient. To keep things equal, karmically speaking, I asked our cab driver to run over a squirrel on the way home. But he didn’t speak English very well either.

So here’s an odd thing about the Milanese. They won’t give you specific restaurant recommendations. They’ll send you in a certain direction, perhaps to a particular street, but when it comes an actual restaurant, they are curiously mum. Luckily, I have some American co-workers who had preceded me in Milan and gave me some tips before we left. Our first recommendation, Antica Trattoria della Pesa, was right on the money.

This is the dish that inspired the title of this post. This was not like any caprese salad I’ve ever had in my life. The tomatoes reminded me of the ones my grandma grew in her garden. Things were off to a good start in Italy. But this dish also bothered me.

Ingredients of this caliber are simply not available in most of the U.S. Why is this? Why can’t we grow tomatoes like this? How has our agriculture become so alienated from our taste buds? I know a lot of people will say, “If you want fresh tomatoes, you need to grow them yourself.” And yes, I’m somewhat sympathetic to this point of view. But fundamentally, I think it’s a lame answer.

I don’t make my own television, computer, or cardboard box. There are other people in the world who can do this stuff more effectively and more cheaply than me. So why do I have to make my own tomatoes if I want good ones? I’m not opposed to cooking. But there are times when this whole eat local, grow-your-own food movement seems like a regression to the middle ages. (I do still think it would be fun to have chickens, though.)

The rest of the post speaks for itself. This was incredible pasta.

Milan’s not a tourist city and it has a pretty prickly reputation, so this probably wasn’t what you imagine when you think “Italian vacation.” Still, we had a nice time, ate a lot of great food, and received lots of dirty looks when we unwittingly broke every little rule of Milanese life.

I had the Full English breakfast, which featured both sausage and bacon.

Eliza had the grilled three cheese sandwich with house smoked ham.