I’ve been putting off describing my dinner at Caffé Milano in Tucson for weeks, mainly because doing so meant I would first have to listen to a soft jazz CD.
Allow me to rewind. I chose Caffé Milano because I saw somewhere on the interwebs they have live jazz the first Saturday of the month and I heard the food is incredible. I wanted to wear a dress that has a jazz kind of vibe so it seemed like a perfect fit.
Because winter in Tucson is truly a delight and because I am always tragically early (even for reservations), we chose to eat on the patio. The people watching was phenomenal. There was a man yelling at the sky in the middle of Congress Street. We got to see a woman jump out of a moving vehicle to get a mediocre street taco. I gave her a 10 for her flawless dismount. There was what looked like a gaggle of street walkers about to catch their deaths in the “cold” wearing dresses up to their ass cheeks, hanging on arcade security guards. Perfection!
Speaking of perfection, I had the Salmone al Sauvignon Blanc with a bottle of Tommasi Le Rosse Pinot Grigio and finished with the Spicy Mousse au Chocolat for dessert. Honestly, I could have just stuck with the bread and the wine and been fine for the night but I’m not a filthy savage (anymore). I was promised a flawless meal and I was not disappointed. That’s about all I remember from the meal because I did drink a bottle of wine.
So about the jazz. I didn’t realize the “live jazz” would be a woman channeling her inner Sade to a karaoke machine. And I’m not saying she can’t sing because she does have a decent voice and I give her mad props for putting herself out there. It’s just…not exactly what I had in mind. I was looking for something with more of an edge. The playlist was better suited to an elevator. Or hold music. Or a nursing home. It may be obvious by this point that the singer passed out her demo CD at the end of her set. I admire her hustle but man, I will not listen to it twice.
Basically, downtown Tucson in December is a hot mess and it is glorious. They don’t call it the Dirty T for nothing.