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There should rarely be a second visit if the first experience is not good. I seldom return to a restaurant unless the initial visit truly warrants it.
That said, I wish I had not come back this time. My first visit left a near-perfect impression; this one, unfortunately, revealed several unsettling flaws.
As is often my habit, I may have ordered too much, but the waitstaff accommodated us graciously. Our server was genuinely lovely—fully engaged and attentive throughout. However, a string of hair appeared in my soup. I chose not to mention it, unwilling to disrupt the mood, and simply moved on. Another staff member noticed and promptly offered to remake the soup. By then, I preferred to proceed to the next course rather than relive the unpleasant discovery. One lesson learned: never send food back—you never quite know what follows. I suspect my decision not to touch the replacement soup may have displeased the kitchen.
When the main courses arrived—two pasta dishes and a risotto—they were underwhelming. All three were lukewarm, as if they had been sitting too long before service. The lone highlight was the pizza. The *Diavola*, literally translated as “devilishly hot,” was shockingly spicy. As a seasoned traveler, I have never encountered a pizza with such aggressive heat. It briefly reminded me of a news story about a Japanese chef overloading sushi with wasabi as a silent expression of displeasure.
As I was leaving, the restaurant manager approached us and offered a box of chocolates as consolation. The waitstaff also apologized sincerely for the missteps of others, showing genuine professionalism. I, too, felt a sense of regret—how a series of small failures by a few could culminate in the erosion of what was once a strong impression.
What saddens me most is the gradual chipping away of the city’s overall sense of goodness as experienced by a tourist—small disappointments like this quietly dim what should otherwise be a welcoming and memorable journey.