I knew an Italian chef who died. He pasta way.
I’ll be busy tomorrow. Have to mow Milan.
You’ll be at it until the wheels fall off. Milan was never mowed in a day.
I’m Roman around the flea market tomorrow.
If you spot a decorative tassel you’d like to buy, will you Pompeii for it?
That’s just Sicily!
Okay, how about buying Capri pants?
Capri pants are a Syracuse for trousers.
Only to those who are acting inseam-ly.
I’m a-frayed when men start discussing fashion.
Hang on, I have to clear my throat. A-hem.
I love this thread.
It can’t be more scary than all that Bologna earlier.
Go ahead, Covfefe. Ham it up, why don’tcha?
No, I shouldn’t dilly-deli; meat me halfway.
Cheese, guys don’t fight.
I’m remembering one great meal I had a long time ago in New York City. It was at a deli, and there were dill pickles on the table–I mean big pickles, like there would be bread on the table of an Italian restaurant. But this time, the bread was stuffed with deli meats.
That was long ago, and maybe I didn’t appreciate it at the time, and the whole event went pastrami.
(But damn! That had to be one of the best deli sandwiches I’ve ever had.)
Sounds like you will never be cured of that pastrami infeastation.
It couldn’t have been liverwurst.
Now you’re just messing with my head cheese space.