31 December 2010
Tuscany, Italy
It was New Years Eve and my birthday! I was in a tiny Medieval village in Tuscany, freezing, but surrounded by friends and my beautiful daughter, Blommie.
We decided to make a reservation at Ristorante Galletti in Crispiano for dinner, as we dined there a few days ago and had the best pesto pasta ever.
There were seven of us and one rented car. After numerous failed attempts to squeeze our seven bodies into the car, we decided to put Autumn Leaves in the boot as she was the smallest.
Belg and I decided that we would go inside the restaurant to make our booking while the others explored the village. At the restaurant we were greeted by the owner. With my Italian phrase book in hand I attempted communication.
“Buongiorno, Reserv…no…pre...prenota... shit this is hard...zione. Sette.”
I was holding up seven fingers.
The owner said something in Italian. I paged frantically through my phrase book. He was talking too fast and I could not decipher anything, much less understand.
“Scusi?”
Off he went again at an enormous speed. I was stressing. I resorted to mime. I showed him seven fingers again. I mimed cutting food and putting it in my mouth. I chewed. I pointed at my watch. I was not wearing a watch. I was pointing at my sleeve. I am an idiot. I started to sweat. I pointed to the clock on the wall. I swept my arm across the restaurant.
The man shook his head and called his wife. Their discussion was heated and punctuated by volume and wild gestures. “Comprendere” and “non” featured in their confabulation.
“Eat. Tonight. Seven.” I endeavoured again in English with the appropriate hand gesticulations. My English was deteriorating fast and I sounded like a dog trainer telling the dog to ‘sit’, ‘stay’ and ‘roll over’.
She then put a newspaper down in front of me and showed me an advertisement for a New Years Eve Dinner. I nodded.
“Sette”, I repeated.
She shook her head: “No!”.
“Si!” I rebutted.
“No! Otto e mezza!” She was clearly agitated with me, because she threw her hands in the air, turned around and disappeared into the kitchen with her husband.
There we were standing alone in the restaurant. I nervously glanced at Belg. He shrugged. Something was getting lost in translation.We were seven (sette! Dammit!) not eight (otto)!. Back to the phrase book. What the hell is a “Mezza”? And then we got it. Half past eight! I was arguing with the wife about the amount of people and not the time.
At last the wife returned with her son. I directed a final and desperate attempt at booking our table to the young boy.
“We...sette...arrivare...tonight...si...sono...compleanno?”
The son nodded.
We left.
“What did you say to them?” Blommie asked on the way back to the car. “They seemed very confused and upset.”
As Autumn Leaves climbed back into the boot of the car, Belg said: “Boefie has just made a booking from a newspaper advertisement for a ten course meal at a restaurant two hours drive from here for eight and a half people.”
Mio zio ha un asino verde.
