Scenes from an Italian Restaurant (Italia Part 1)

The love affair begins on the plane.  Waking from a fitful nap in that fugue state that is peculiar to long haul travel, it occurs to me that we are an hour from landing in Rome.  Why has no one handed me that vital piece of paper upon which I need to declare my intentions towards Italia.
Personally I have always thought that Arrival Cards are something of an exercise in futility.  It's not as if anyone is going to decide to save immigration time by writing "Drug Mule" in the "Occupation" field.  "Why thank you for your honesty Sir, now if you wouldn't mind going back the way you came in".
Likewise people smuggling in other illegal items do not actually write down the fact that they have a hotel fruit basket, a medium sized ferret and 2000 Rothmans concealed in their faux Louis Vuitton luggage.
Anyway I digress... 

"I may have dozed through the documentation distribution part" I think and flag down a passing crew member.

"Excuse me, I appear to be missing an Arrival Card"

"It's OK, you don't need one for Italy"

Huh'???? 

The good vibes continue when I hit immigration and the officer smiles warmly as he takes my passport.

"Benvenuto in italia signora". 
Good grief - anyone would think that they actually want people to visit their country. 

One very fast train later we are in Napoli. 

There is a famous expression:  "Vedi Napoli e poi muori", which translates as "See Naples and die", the idea being that once one has seen Naples there is nothing else worth seeing, comparatively speaking.  And whoever said it had a point because it is utterly lovely.

And there is a Volcano in the back yard of the hotel.

We wander into the centre of town and find a restaurant on the plaza, in other city this would be a tourist trap with mediocre food and a 20% surcharge.  In Naples it is full of regulars and each new arrival is greeted by the owner like long lost family. 

The Italians don’t do gratuitous drinking.  If you order an adult beverage it arrives accompanied by complimentary snacks.  It is responsible hosting at finest and something we need to get better at in NZ.

When the mains arrive they are delicious, and elephantine, I manage less than half of my pasta.  The owner, who seems to be everywhere at once comes to take the plates.  His brow furrows in consternation “you have finished?”.  I feel guilty “it is molto bene”  I assure him “just…a lot”.

“Eh, not so much” he says, “where are you from?”. 

“New Zealand”

“How long in Napoli?”

“Arrived this morning”

“Ah…sei stanco!!” he announces triumphantly.

Satisfied that he has identified the source of my disappointing appetite he takes the plates away.  I imagine him consoling the chef “It’s OK, she loved it, she was just very tired”

The European Champions League Soccer final is on and there is a TV outside the restaurant.  A crowd has been steadily gathering while we eat.  There isn’t enough room for everyone so the locals crowd around the perimeter to watch the game and the owner is happy for them to be there.

They are happy and friendly and vocal, a lot of good natured jostling for position ensues. 

I ask for the bathroom, the waiter starts to explain in Italian, it’s clearly not easy to find.  Seeing my perplexed expression he laughs “I show you”.

We go inside and I follow him through the restaurant, up two flights of stairs and through two huge sets of double doors.  I catch a glimpse of a busy kitchen, staff charging in all directions.

And through the second set of doors we emerge into a scene from “Big Night”

A massive room with tables everywhere and waiters delivering huge plates of amazing looking and smelling food to Italian families.  Everyone is eating and drinking and laughing and gesticulating enthusiastically. 

Not a tourist in sight. This is where the real action happens.  And from the street you would never know it was all up there.

I am entranced, I lean against the wall and take it all in, every table has at least three generations talking and shouting over the top of each other.  Babies to great grandparents, Sunday dinner Italian style.

I catch the eye of a passing waiter and he grins at me "up here is better no?"  "Oh yes" it's wonderful".  He nods "Si, si signora, but of course".

Later the owner brings chocolates with the coffee "Dolce!!" he announces triumphantly.  

And gives me a look that I translate as "and I dare you to resist it"

So I don't, and they are little morsels of heaven.

When I go to pay the bill the owner is there again, just like American Express in those fabulous old ads from the 90's he is everywhere you want him to be.

"Everything was bene?" he enquiries "Si, molto bene, grazie mille" 

"Good, you come back again, we are always here"

And I don't doubt that they will be, and how lovely is that.