Mithi and I woke up that morning with one singular mission — spend the day as Italians would, right here in Dhaka. This wasn't just a half-hearted attempt at indulging in pizza and calling it a day. No, we were committed. The hand gestures, the languid pacing of time, the unapologetic devotion to good food — it was all part of the plan.

First order of business? Learning the language. Well, sort of. We spent a solid 15 minutes butchering basic Italian phrases on YouTube before Mithi, in her infinite wisdom, declared, "If they can't understand my enthusiasm, maybe I should just shout 'Mamma Mia' at random intervals."

With that settled, we needed an activity fitting of our Italian personas. The Italians appreciate art, culture, and things that require more patience than the average Dhaka commuter possesses. So, we headed to an exhibition featuring works inspired by Italian contemporary artists. Standing in front of an abstract piece, I nodded knowingly. "It's about existential longing." Mithi squinted, tilted her head, and replied, "Looks like the last slice of pizza being taken away." Fair enough.

Our next stop was a necessary detour into fashion — because what's an Italian day without a little sartorial flair? We strolled through a few boutiques searching for something effortlessly stylish. Italians have mastered the art of looking like they didn't try too hard. We, on the other hand, looked like two people desperately trying to blend into a Milanese piazza, but in the middle of Banani. "You need better shoes," Mithi remarked. "No Italian man worth his salt wears something that looks like it survived a flood." Point taken.

By evening, we were primed for the most crucial element of our experiment — food. And not just any food. If we were going to do this right, we needed the kind of meal that made us reconsider all our previous life choices. Enter Brio. The place itself is as subtle as the dishes are bold — it doesn't even have a signboard outside, just a small Italian flag that lights up. The owners prefer it that way, confident that word of mouth is the way to go.

The moment we walked in, we knew this wasn't the run-of-the-mill, tomato-paste-drenched interpretation of Italian cuisine. The smell alone — warm, rich, with the faintest trace of fresh basil — was enough to make us momentarily silent, which, in itself, is a feat.

We started with the Burrata and Artichoke Pizza, a crisp yet pillowy dough slathered in Italian tomato sauce, adorned with fresh burrata, tender artichokes, and the kind of basil that makes you briefly consider moving to the countryside and growing your own herbs. The first bite? A revelation. The burrata melted into the warm dough in a way that can only be described as divine intervention.

Then came the Aglio Olio Seafood Spaghetti—a dish that can either be painfully underwhelming or a symphony of simplicity. This was the latter. The shrimp and squid, tossed in garlic and parsley, carried the perfect balance of fresh and indulgent. Mithi, swirling a perfect bite onto her fork, sighed dramatically. "I think I was Italian in my past life. Or at least my taste buds were."

The masterminds behind Brio — Sadiq Quddus, Ali Arsalan, and Sadat Mahdil — watched our reactions closely, clearly amused by the sheer reverence with which we were devouring the food. They subtly nudged us toward trying their Manchego cheese and real parmesan. We obliged, because refusing cheese is, quite frankly, a crime. The Manchego was nutty, the parmesan sharp — both a stark reminder of what cheese is supposed to taste like before mass production dulls its soul.

Full, happy, and sufficiently convinced that we had achieved peak Italian energy, we left Brio with a newfound appreciation for how deeply intertwined food and culture truly are.

"So," I asked Mithi as we stepped outside, "Are we keeping up the Italian lifestyle tomorrow?" She paused, thoughtful. "Only if it involves more cheese and less walking."

Fair enough.