Michelangelo’s statue of David stands at the foot of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence, Italy. Except it’s not the original David. The real deal was moved to the nearby Galleria dell'Accademia in 1873, while the one before us is a to-scale replica installed just over one hundred years ago. It’s David, but not David.

Facades, it turns out, are a common feature of this city. There are the actual facades, like the pink and green marble exterior of the Duomo. Its walls are lined with patterns so intricate that to look at them feels almost intoxicating. These are facades that conceal jewels of the Renaissance, a real highpoint – amid a tonne of lows – of collective human history.

Then there’s the other sort of facade. The outward appearances that mask some other truth. Neo-gothic piazzas filled with tour guides and vaping teens. Centuries-old Italian architecture housing one Irish pub after another. Not that we’re complaining. It’s fun to marvel at a trompe l’oeil then sink a pint of Guinness.

We’re here for the winter edition of Pitti Uomo, so expect to see beautifully tailored men on every corner. Yet even they’re outflanked by tourists, despite the grim January weather. On the hunt for the ‘real’ Florence, we make our way to our dinner reservation.

We’ve chosen the restaurant, Antica Trattoria da Tito, because it’s been there since 1913. Better still, it’s a solid 20 minute clip from tourist hotspots. The entrance is unassuming – you’d walk right by if you weren’t paying attention – but inside, the vibe can only be described as borderline unhinged.

Every inch of wall and ceiling is covered in random scribbles, which gives a fleeting sense of being trapped in a nightclub toilet. On the menu, a plate of offal is called ‘SEXY COW ENTRAILS’, a trio of words that might only appeal to serious nose-to-tail eaters, or a stray dog. Various signs, some in Italian, others in mangled English, lay down the ‘rules’ of the restaurant: steak must be ordered rare, adults can’t drink soda and ‘no other tourist bullshits’ [sic].

Our continental neighbours often accuse Brits of lowering the tone when we venture abroad, but there are times when we do chime with a certain strain of European humour. Us tourists and our bullshits love the place as soon as we walk in.

The steak in question is La Bistecca alla Fiorentina. A signature Tuscan dish, the T-bone includes both the fillet and sirloin. As sanctioned by the laws of our hosts, it’s served bloodied on a wooden block. The cut, which clocks in at a shade over a kilo, is shared by two of us. It is delicious – charred, tender and perfectly seasoned. La Bistecca is a Pitti mainstay. Photos of the steak, being presented like a trophy to tuxedo-clad diners, flood social media during the event. We also take photos, but ours look too much like a crime scene to post.

The rest of our order – bruschetta, prosciutto, pappardelle with wild boar ragu – is a sturdy reflection of Tuscan cooking. While some of us did campaign for sexy cow entrails, a compromise was reached through familiar dishes with distinct regional character.

We skip dessert and order limoncello for the table. We expect four small glasses, but they leave us the bottle to pour as we please.

If not for our suits and ties, the whole thing might feel reminiscent of raiding dad’s liquor cabinet at a teenage house party. The night prior, we’d sipped Negronis at a black-tie event hosted by a not-inexpensive men’s journal. On the walk to dinner, we passed restaurants with white tablecloths and waiters in waistcoats. While no one was expecting anything this formal, we didn’t think we’d be taking shots with the staff as we settle the bill. Behind all the beauty of Florence, there’s a bit of chaos on the ground. Maybe that’s why they moved David.

We wake early the next day for a photoshoot. Three non-models, decked out in Moss’ SS26 tailoring, trying their best on a stroll through Florence’s cobbled streets. Pitti Uomo is known for its hectic schedule of parties, non-stop networking and memorable dinners. But between the handshakes and limoncello, you get the chance to explore the sites that – on the surface, at least – define this unreal city.

We’re lucky enough to have our friends Rikesh Chauhan, Anton Welcome and Jake Spencer along for the shoot, as we dodge tour groups and nurse another jet-black espresso – taking a moment’s pause by the Arno, where a lone rower braves the cold morning.