The Buzz: Siciliano’s Market News & Notes

I’m thinking that the Conch Republic is about the only place you would hear crazy shit like that.

We probably would have gone further but we ran out of road.

I kew the Cohibas were fake as soon as I looked at them.

I blamed my high percentage of gutter balls on the rocking and rolling of the wave-tossed ship.

By Steve Siciliano It's tradition here at Siciliano's to treat our customers to German wieners and draft root beer on the Saturdays of...

By Steve Siciliano It began raining again as soon as we turned off the two track onto Six Mile Road. “Rotten day for fishing,” Harry said...

By Steve Siciliano The news of Fidel Castro’s death last week brought back memories of a trip my wife Barb and I took to Cuba about ten...

By Harry Winston Last week I was going through a bookcase in my cabin up north when I came across a Moleskine notebook that I had...

By Steve Siciliano I was about to make the turn onto Bass Lake Road when I saw Joe Parker stacking a load of firewood into the woodshed...

The name aperitif is derived from the Latin aperire, which means "to open" and refers to the stimulation of appetite that occurs after ing

By Steve Siciliano When my wife Barb and I travel we like finding bars and restaurants that are, for the most part, patronized by the...

By Steve Siciliano One evening Barb and I were the only diners in a small restorante in the Tuscan hill town of Loro Ciuffenna. We had...

It was Sunday afternoon in Florence and Barb and I were dead tired. We had just left the Uffizi Gallery, and after the trudge up to the...

By Steve Siciliano Loro Ciuffenna is a small town tucked in the southern foothills of the Pratomagno, a range of medium-sized mountains...

“Due birre alla spina media, per favore.” I never thought I’d be saying those words so often in Italy

Maybe I’m in the minority, but I didn’t even know that Prince Harry and the Duchess of Cambridge were expecting.

I have to admit that during the dog days of summer my favorite grilled meat is chicken.

It’s four in the morning, I’m staring at a blank computer screen and I’m wondering where my muse is.

I’ve always been rather standoffish towards rosés simply because I assumed that they were cut from the same cloth as white zinfandels.

Twenty years later in an Italian restaurant on Rush Street in Chicago, another old waiter persuaded me to give Chianti another try.