In this column, we hunt down recipes requested by you, our readers, to test in our kitchen and print in our magazine.

Dear Bon Appétit, I recently visited Florence with my husband and our three kids and had the most amazing pasta I’ve ever tasted in my life at Tamerò. The culurgiones were so good, in fact, I managed to forget I signed the divorce papers the day prior. I cried so hard that I threw up in the bathroom after dessert. Please help. I need one good thing in these trying times. I need that recipe.
— Susana Gevrek, Thousand Oaks

Hello Susana, we’re so pleased to hear that you could enjoy those noodles in the middle of such great tragedy. At Bon Appétit, we believe that good food should be at the heart of all important life experiences — including coming to terms with what sounds like a very messy and unilateral divorce. One of our writers recently visited Florence (or Firenze, if you’re saying it properly) for a previous restaurant issue, and while they did not dine at Tamerò, they did enjoy the eclectic and vibrant culinary scene cultivated in the city’s most select eating establishments. To quote our writer’s review …

Okay, damn. We didn’t think you’d actually read this far. You really want that recipe, don’t you Susana? Well, we tried everything. We begged, we journeyed, we bargained. It all started when our intern Mark got on the plane. He called us saying his second connection, from Paris to Florence, was canceled. He planned to squeeze onto a different flight the next day. Regardless, it was already going to be hell to get the alternate flight approved by the budget team.

Anyway, while driving on the autostrada the next day, an apparition appeared to Mark. He saw a blinding flash of light shrouding the figure of his older self. Mark described the figure as “mantled by a great black cape, staff in hand, very distressed, and sporting a horrendous mullet.” According to his future self, he needed to obtain the Tamerò culurgiones recipe as soon as possible to prevent the collision of the metaphysical planes and the annihilation of all universes — but the figure also warned that many would attempt to thwart him on this quest.

Naturally, Mark took the mysterious apparition at its word, but was soon confronted by inexplicably unlikely obstacles. He ran out of gas (or, as it is known in Europe, petroleum). He pushed the rental car to the nearest gas station, where none of the attendants spoke English. It took them two hours to communicate to him that they were closed because they had run out of gas and direct him to the closest working pump. There, he spilled gas on himself. He bought an ice cream bar, but he tripped and it fell into the dirt. The only hotel for miles couldn’t process his work card. He ended up sleeping on a park bench circled by crows, located across from a mob front.

We’re getting into the weeds a little bit here. We don’t need to justify ourselves or our failures, but the rest of his journey was equally challenging and error-ridden. Long story short, intern Mark offered his soul to “the wizard on the mount” in exchange for the recipe in order to save the universe, but he failed the wizard’s test of fortitude, and was banished from the restaurant. Mark insists on describing him as “the wizard,” but we have discerned a different story from other accounts. The “wizard” Mark spoke of was the Tamarò chef, Dacio Salvatori, who challenged Mark to “prove himself” by asking him to wash dishes during the dinner rush, which he failed to do. Mark’s subsequent appeals to the all-knowing Pasta God were refused, and he returned to our New York office empty-handed after four months — but he insisted he’d been gone only four days.

We’re sorry to disappoint you, but our intern Mark has suffered enough. You’ll survive without your special pasta, Susana. And your husband.