383. Ristorante

 The restaurant is a long room with tables covered in red and white checked table cloths. We are greeted by a waitress who asks us if we have a reservation. At least we think that is what she is asking. 

‘Duo.’ I say. 

‘Due.’ My husband says. 

One of us is bound to be right.

The fact that the two of us are standing there waiting gives it away anyway. I feel pathetic. I'm a language teacher and I cannot cope with basic Italian. If this continues to be be a problem for me I will do what my students do and get Google Translate out or something.

We are somewhere in a remote mountainous area in Northern Italy in the depths of winter. We have just dropped Baby off and right now she is in a comfortable hotel room having been fed a hot dinner and we are driving along a very dark road not knowing where our next meal is going to come from let alone where we are going to sleep.

We stop in this small town. It looks picturesque but then agin anywhere looks ancient and picturesque in Italy. 

The waitress waves her arms at us and marches us down the main room and round a corner to the far end of a second room, still with red and white checked cloths on the tables. She points with a flourish of the wrist and we obediently sit down. A couple of menus land in our hands shortly followed by a basket of bread. The tables are quite far apart. I wonder if it is to give landing space to the projectiles of if it is because the Italians speak so loud and wave their arms around so much.

I start looking at the menu. I flick through the pages quickly. I am not impressed. I look at my husband who is engrossed in his. I start again at the beginning. I look at my husband again. He seems to be into it. 

‘I don’t like it.’ I say, realising I sound like a spoiled brat.

He looks worried. 

‘I don’t. I really don’t. There’s nothing I like.’

As a reply he goes back to his menu. Then he suggests something.

‘No.’ The spoilt brat says sharply.

He knows what is coming. Apparently I have done it before.

'Come on! Choose something simple. A salad?'

'I'm in Italy! I'm not going to eat lettuce!'

'Well, there's nowhere else.'

'There is. There are pizza places.'

My husband sighs and looks at me.

'Really?'

'Really.' 

I get up and put my coat on and head down the length of the whole restaurant, head held high like a disappointed Italian woman would. I am hoping my husband is following me - as any sensible Italian husband would. 

I push the door and am out in the street, breathing icy cold mountain air. I can now turn round and check. My husband is there on the pavement next to me.

‘Dearie me Marie! Please don’t do that again.'

'I won't. pinky promise.' I smile and cross the street and push the door of the noisy steaming hot pizzeria! Viva Italia!