Propaganda

If my perfect Roman apartment had a favorite restaurant, this would be it.
Caffè Propaganda, I am in love with you. Say you miss me.

Foolishly, I neglected to take a picture of the restaurant (though I did take a picture of my dinner), but other people were not so remiss.

You should click on this one to see all of it. In fact, I insist.
It's is from here.

See that high table by the door? I sat right there. Quite near the charming hostess and within easy ogling distance of the gorgeous bar.
This one is from here, which is a very useful website, indeed.

After a tiresome/worrying delay waiting for the #87 bus, I only just made it before they stopped serving dinner, but the hostess, who was extremely charming (and beautiful and wearing very tall shoes that seemed not to give her the slightest trouble), took pity on me. I had Prosecco, green salad, and pasta della Nona, followed by Marco Polo tea from Mariage Frères, which is my very favorite tea. They were puzzled why I would be ordering tea at 11pm, but they still served it with fetchingly mismatched china, including a tall, long-spouted pot painted with flowers and lovers of yesteryear.
On the whole, I was dizzy with happiness. Upon my departure, I thanked the hostess very effusively for being so kind and we clutched each other's hands and beamed at each other dazzlingly as though we had shared some experience rather more bonding than a dinner which only one of us ate.

I could look at pictures of Caffè Propaganda all day long. In fact, I sometimes do. If you think we may have this in common, prego; here are lots.