Mangiare or Bere?

I will never forget the first meal I ate in Italy.  Mom and I dropped our bags at the hotel, and took to the streets.  We were two wild women on the loose as we prowled the neighborhood with our matching messenger bags.  Tired from the long flight, we planted ourselves at nearly the first little outdoor café we came across.  Grateful to get off our feet, we sighed in ecstasy.

Now let me explain that my previous idea of a quaint little Italian sidewalk café and the real deal are slightly different.  In my mind, you would sit in the dappled sunlight with about twelve breathtaking statues in eyesight, and just be.  Sure, you would stuff your mouth with pasta or cannolis, but that was just a bonus.  You are there to dig the ambiance, the elegance of outdoor dining in a country known for its scenery, its cuisine, and its art.

Well, this much I can tell you.  They are not sidewalk cafes; they are in-the-road cafes.  It took a little getting used to, but by day two, I was hardly batting an eye when a big delivery truck or vespa whipped by two inches from the table, rattling the plates,  making the tablecloth whip in the wind,  and wafting exhaust fumes casually across your plate.

But back to the first meal in Rome, which was lunch.  Mom and I ordered Cokes, which were served with a slice of lemon.  From here on out, I will not be able to drink one without it.  It was one of those little  revelations that reminded you that despite your best efforts, you're still pretty much a moron...like why weren't you doing it this way all along?

 We decided to keep it simple with a parma ham & mozerella Panini each.  Orders in, I leaned back to people watch.  I have never been anywhere more ripe for people watching than Italy...the natives, the tourists, the old, the young...there is a story behind every person, every movement, every interaction.  I wish I could capture them all.

Take the woman who ran the restaurant, for instance.  I think she may have co-owned it with her  husband, but it was clear even to me, that she wore the pants in that family operated business.  She was the matriarch of all matriarchs, barking at the men in her life to do her bidding, and then scowling with disapproval at most of their efforts.  I grinned to myself, thinking Mom may have found her kindred spirit, and didn't even realize it.  They should totally friend each other on Facebook.

I don't know how to say "It is what it is" in Italian yet, but that was clearly this woman's mantra.  She came over to the table, her salt and pepper - still mostly pepper- hair scraped back in a severe bun, and demanded, "Mangiare or bere?  Mangiare or bere?" in a thick accent.  Mangiare, I knew.  The other...well, I thought perhaps she was asking if we wanted beer with our food.  Disgusted at the look of uncertainty on my American face, she resorted to hand gestures...eat or drink, blondie?

I signed "eat" back to her, and asked for our paninis.  Placated, she nodded once, and dismissed us.
This little lunch spot was not fancy, but more of a mom and pop dirty spoon diner type.  My mom watched, horrified, as the lady took a menu and swiped it across a tabletop near ours, sweeping the crumbs wherever the four winds took them, and called it good.  I could not help but grin.  I liked this lady.  She was a tough cookie, and she did things to her own satisfaction.  If you don't like it, her face spoke, take your measly Panini business around the corner.  I didn't like the look of your face, anyway.

The whole operation was just humorous to watch.  There were perhaps five outdoor tables outfitted with heavy black wrought iron chairs.  Each time a new patron showed up, the owner or one of her waiters would come out and make a big production of arranging the chairs to match the number of people in the dining party.  They picked those babies up and slammed them down with the sort of passion I have never seen outside of this city.  I love these people!  If you're gonna slam a chair down, slam it like you mean it, right?

The sandwiches were delicious, of course.  They were not fancy, just simple and good- sliced parma ham thin and lacey enough to read the Battle Creek Enquirer through, thick gooey puddles of fresh mozzarella, and thin toasted bread made thinner still by the pressed cooking process.

Another thing about dining in Italy is that time goes slower.  Your American rush-rush-rush mentality has tied itself in a dozen knots before you've even had your drink order taken.  Slowly, but surely, your internal workings begin to adjust to your environment, and you realize it's sort of nice to take your time.  The wait staff  here are not hovering, or suggesting desert while you are still getting acquainted with your salad.  In fact, they couldn't care less if you spent your entire evening eating your spaghetti carbonara strand by strand.  What's the rush, this Italian way of life asks?  We took the time to cook it for you, at least take the time to taste it. 

A bird wandered over between tables to say hello and beg for crusts of bread as we waited for the bill.  I told Mom it was Cory coming to say hello.  She smiled indulgently.  About a half an hour later, the waiter came with the bill, and I was forced to surrender some of their pretty Euros.  I took a final glance at Mama Matriarch as I left, wondering if I should wish her well, and realized it was completely unnecessary- she would be fine, come what may. 

Teach me your ways, grumpy Italian restaurant lady; I want to be like you.