What to Eat in Milan After Midnight

This article originally appeared on MUNCHIES Italy. I love eating. I was born and raised in the deep south of Italy, where, at any hour of the night, wherever I turned, I could get my fat fix with ridiculously-priced street food. Sometimes I'd even still do it if I wasn't hungry—it was just pure gluttony.

In Milan, that's not the case. After a certain hour of the night, finding something to eat is a struggle. The local kitchens raise a white flag and the food trucks scatter into the night. If you don't have a car, forget it. Aside from some rare little mini-pizzeria or a shawarma stand that stays open indefinitely, the hungry have a hard life in Milan.

So, hot on the trail like a truffle hound and accompanied by my favorite reporter-photographer Alice, I spent an entire night searching to see what's on the menu in Milan after midnight. I spotted the headlights of the food truck on via Feltre at 1:05 AM. The truck's clock, however, read 11:30 PM—a mysterious melange of hours. There was a lady inside sleeping with her mouth half open. Alice and I woke her up to ask for a sandwich and whether it would be possible to take a photo. She turned us down with a scowl, and even the sandwich was a failure: No photo, no bread.

As we head down Corso Buenos Aires, my stomach is growling like a monster freshly awakened from a Lovecraftian hell. At the top of Piazza Argentina, we stop at Istanbul Ayasofya, the Mecca for any nocturnal desperado between Porta Venezia and Loreto.

Here, they've been speaking the language of kebab (or kebap, in Turkish) since it opened in 2006. It closes at 6:00 AM. Since the little salad on the kebab gives me hives, I ordered it with meat and fries, and I soak it in white sauce made from yogurt, mayonnaise, mint, and oregano. True and primordial, a kebab as it should be.

I also ordered a little basket of potatoes stuffed with cheese hotter than the lava of Mount Etna, and made friends with a Peruvian kid who's particularly loquacious with alcohol. I also saw a more orderly version of Tommy Lee together with a Kelys doppelganger with glasses, and the bill goes up: 5€.

An army of aspiring daredevils crossed the street without looking. Alice, at the wheel of the car sheltering us from the sprinkling rain, spared at least three of them before we arrived in front of Rosa & Gabriele, a restaurant/pizzeria that stays open late. But the gate is down and it's hardly even 2:00 AM. Sadness.

Don't panic, though: If nothing else, there were sandwiches to go. And what better spot than Paninoteca di Buenos Aires? An Italian institution since 1978, it's survived mainstream competition from the Burger King located just around the corner.

At 2:15 AM they were almost closed, but we succeeded in making it all the same. Mr. Vito, the man behind the register, explained to me that Paninoteca di Buenos Aires stays open to 2:30 AM, but they used to stay open until 5:00 AM. With the country's financial crisis in 2008, the clientele shrunk and consequently so did the hours.

Three seconds later, the industrious Chamika served me a tartare: Raw beef, tomato, and sauce (not specified on the menu, but my palate told me it's tartar sauce).

Better than a sandwich was the Milanese toast: Crispy and robust, meat and gravy marvelously copulate, and the tomato is only a small supporting character, if not an awkward voyeur. I released a satisfied burp only after having paid the €5 bill.

Pre-burp.

After another 15 minutes went by, the nocturnal population diminished. We drove around, spotting a few stumbling, particularly well-dressed drunks (it's Milan, after all) and a few clowns burning their reds at the stoplight.

In the Corso Como area, the fauna became interesting. At 2:30 AM, the average wanderer was of a younger sort, a survivor of the Saturday evening bomberismo, along with from some slinger who tried to sell us some blow. No thanks, man—I get high on fried food.

Princi was closed, but on the other side of the street appeared a luminous pink sign. I read Leggo Ballarò and thought of Sicilian food. I felt at home. I went inside, but they only had the bad food from Sicily. Little remained in the display case: Some fried bread and mozzarella, fried panzerotti, pieces of pizza with congealed cheese, and bits of hamburger over-sizzling on the grill. I told the lady that I didn't see anything Sicilian, but she informed me that the sign was from the old management and that this spot only opened a week ago. They're open for service six days a week, and close at 6 AM.

Alice, a vegetarian, bit into a tomato and cheese panzerotti. It was very obviously a few hours old and on the verge of rigor mortis.

Two kids, quite high, barged in, their collective blood alcohol well past that of an entire Heineken factory. I gave one of them, a guy with Eminem-like platinum hair and a perforated shirt which he said he'd made himself, half the panzerotti that cost us €3.50.

As we entered Calafuria on viale Marche at 2:55 AM, the half panzerotti sat heavily in my belly.

The place was empty, which was strange—every time I've come here in the past, it's been a madhouse at all hours. Alice and I ordered a Boscaiola pizza, which is a Margherita with porcini mushrooms. The waitress showed us the fresh porcinis, but didn't tell us that they'd make the pizza cost an extra €3.50. That didn't seem very fair to me. Also, after 1 AM, everything you order apparently costs 10 percent more. A €6.50 pizza ultimately cost me €11, almost as much as one of those "gurmé" pizzas they go crazy for in Milan.

Unfortunately, the gourmet here isn't to go. To be honest, the pizza was a battle: The crust was subtle—perhaps even too subtle, because the sauce and mozzarella turned it soggy. Easy to digest, though. With a pitcher of water it came to €14.50. But hey, it stays open until 5 AM.

As we headed towards what was supposed to be our next destination, we ended up veering slightly off course. I caught sight of an open stand close to Bastioni di Porta Venezia, near one of the entrances to the Indro Montanelli park. It was called La Comida and at the counter three women were busy plating sandwiches and mixing cocktails. It seemed to me the right place for a pork sandwich, which I could see behind the glass of the display case. I asked for a recommendation from the house and and was told to order a Bomber: Pork, goat, house dressing, mushrooms, zucchini, and cheese. It's a season ticket to the cardiologist, and at 3:30 in the morning, it was the perfect snack.

The Bomber.

The sandwich arrived in all its splendor and I must admit that even my crude palate appreciated such sophistication: Brutal and without half-measures, the pork dominated all of the other ingredients. A Doberman arrived without a leash and without an owner, and sat in front of me, stretching its legs, and seemed to say: Give up now, you clown. Judging by his open mouth and tongue wagging in the direction of my sandwich, I tossed him the last bite in an attempt to spare my knuckles.

We said goodbye, but not before some clients screamed what the hell is that guy doing? while, for the record, I posed for Alice's camera like a vampire sinking her teeth into the cause of her future heart attack. Combined with a Coke to wash it all down, it was €8 at the register. They also offered us a cocktail.

From that point on, I started to take flight and couldn't stop. And I still didn't turn down a visit to the stand across the street, Pandy and Mucca, which looks out onto Piazzale Libia.

It was 4:05 and they close up shop at 5:30. It started to rain, I was cold, and vaguely afraid that the chill would give me the squirts. The little food stall, however, has been open for 13 years and also has a toilet. Five star service! I scrutinized the menu and read aloud: "The Horse." That's what it's called, and it's a sandwich with spiced horse steak. Pandy, one of the two owners of the grill, asked me, "How do you want the steak—my way or yours?" I always trust the chef, so I told him to do it his way. The sandwich arrived, topped with arugula and breadcrumbs; the meat was tender and juicy. My tastebuds flew as if they were in a Chagall painting. Even the bread was nice and fragrant, and didn't crack when you bit into it. Well done, Pandy.

I also asked Pandy what his actual name is, assuming that, when he was a kid, he must've been jealous of his sister's boyfriends and would break their balls, which is why she stuck him with such a nickname. Pandy replied and told me the name is derived from "Pandino," which comes from "Pandyfuckoff." Ah, high-cuisine poetry.

With a bottle of water, the bill came to €9.

At 4:30 AM, however, the evening's biggest disappointment arrived. I had the idea to try Ak Waba, the restaurant/bar on via Ludovico Il Moro, which does cuisine from the Ivory Coast. I entered cautiously: There were only two customers inside, plus the managers, Marx and Patricia, the latter of whom was rocking a stylish, Tina Turner–esque leonine mohawk.

I asked if we could still eat but the kitchen was closed. Heartache ensued. They generally stay open until 5 AM with the standard menu, but tonight there weren't many customers and they closed early. In any event, I promised to go back on my own to try it: allocco (fried plantains), attieke (manoca cous cous with barbecued fish), mafe (peanut stew), chakouille de poulet (grilled or roast chicken), and green rice with vegetables.

Time flew by. On via Tabacchi, in Maradona's little stand, there was life. Rain was coming down in torrents and inside hung Naples soccer jerseys. Inside was a friendly and efficient Sri Lankan gentleman who took my order.

The language of the horse was spoken here as well, so I asked for a Varenne: Horse meat, broccoli rabe, salt, and oil.

Here there were masterfully hammered adolescent boys swarming about, as well as an Eastern European girl who stood next to me in line, brushing up against my jacket and saying that she could only get warm through human contact. The pervasive scent of booze wasn't sexy to begin with, and then I saw what she was drinking: Corona. I don't talk to people who drink Corona. I stopped talking to her and focused on my sandwich, whose broccoli (along with everything else I'd eaten that night) was spicy enough to make me fear the worst in the morning. There was a lot of it—too much, really, that the flavor overpowered the meat, which almost didn't come through. Pandy made more of an impression on me. Maradona's closes at 6 AM, and the sandwich cost me €7.

Before the sun came up, there was still time and space in my stomach for one last visit on our journey of the night. At 5:30, we arrived at Le Capannelle on viale Papiniano. Most of the tables were occupied by customers, many of whom were hunched over, looking defeated by the long night of drinking. I looked at the menu and around the restaurant, and asked the waitress if the kitchen was still open. She said yes, and did so again when I followed up about whether the lobster linguini, which costs €23, was still an option. You could almost hear the jubilation hymns from up above.

When the plate arrived, the lobster sat on a nest of pasta, one inert claw towering above the rest. I felt like a Russian diplomat who's fallen into financial disgrace.

The pasta was crisp, the sauce flavorful, the lobster a bit acidic in the torso and a touch raw in the claws, but whatever. When it's 5:45 AM and everyone else is having breakfast, you feel like a tough guy eating pasta with shellfish.

Hey, if they don't want cake, let them eat lobster! That's what Marie Antoinette said, right?

And yes, there are several spots missing from this, including Le Luride, the spot in Piazzale Lodi, and the one on viale Romolo, the bakery near the Atomic, and the bakery in Barona. Well, you can't eat everything, can you?

Follow Marco Giarratana/aka UomoSenzaTonno.
Follow Alice Gemignani.