Don't Mess with the Mamas

“A table to eat, or to drink?” the waiter asked. “Both,” I answered. It was my first night in Venice; as usual, I only slept briefly on the flight over and was determined to stay awake and adjust to local time as quickly as possible. I made my way to the tourist clogged Rialto Bridge to absorb the frenetic energy, and found a canal-side restaurant, Caffe Saraceno.

“For one, only?” Little did I know at the time that all waiters I encountered during this solo trip to Venice and Florence would react to my table-for-one request with emotion ranging from mild surprise to total horror and as a result, I never really dined alone. During my second week, Carlo in Florence asked, “Where is your husband? Did you have a fight?” When I told him I was traveling alone, he invited me to meet him the next morning and we would ride his scooter to Piazelle Michelangelo for cappuccino. “Maybe another time,” I told him. Another Florentine threw up his hands and exclaimed, “Impossibile!” when he discovered I was on my own. Both hotel concierges in both cities went out of their way to help me when I needed it; Fabio in Venice even walked me to a restaurant he claimed was difficult to find.

This first-night Venetian waiter was a bit younger than me, about the same height, with droopy hangdog brown eyes and grey streaked short hair. As he asked the question, he touched my elbow so I pushed my agenda. “Si, un tavolo per una. And I'd like to sit next to the canal.” There was only one table available, set for 4, and Giovanni (“call me Gianni”) walked me right over to it. “Prego, Signora.” Already seated next to me were three women, perhaps in their late 60's, speaking rapid fire Italian. After he handed me my menu, Gianni delivered a bottle of wine to my neighbors, then returned to take my order.

He made some menu recommendations, one of which I took, poured my wine, and became very chatty. Where are you from? How long are you in Venice? Are you traveling alone? Really? He would leave my side briefly then reappear in a flash to refill my wine glass. After placing my salad on the table, Gianni whisked away the table oil and vinegar and replaced both with extra virgin and balsamic. “For you, Signora.” Again, with the elbow touching. I was totally charmed.

My table was perfect; I had a great seat: front row on the Grand Canal. Gondolas drifted by. Vaparetti stuffed with tourists wielding video cameras chugged along, the waves from their wake lapping by my boots. I finished my salad and sipped my Chianti. I'm sure I must have sighed. Here comes dinner. As Gianni served the veal, the table next to me erupted. The trio of Italian Mamas was pissed.

I couldn't understand much, but I heard “L'Americana” this, and “L'Americana” that. Hands flying. Fingers wagging. They had no food yet. “No rispetto! No rispetto!” Everyone in the restaurant was watching. I was terrified and terribly entertained at the same time. Gianni stood there, arms crossed. Then one of the women shouted, “Il conto. Allora!” Yikes. They wanted the check before they even had dinner. He started to reason with them, I think, but seemed to get nowhere. I concentrated on my dinner and the water taxis zipping by, avoiding eye contact with both the table of Mamas and my beleaguered waiter.

He finally raised both hands and shouted, “Basta!” He brought them their check and as they stormed out, one of the Mamas lectured another waiter as well, for good measure. Wow. I wasn't expecting dinner AND a show.

Gianni sauntered over with a slight smile and a big shrug. “Mi dispiace,” he said. “Boy, you really got in trouble,” I told him. His smile widened and he poured me a big glass of wine: not my house Chianti, but a Brunello. “My compliments, Signora.” As I left the restaurant, he thanked me with a kiss on each cheek and a “Ciao, Bella!”

And that, my friends, is one of the many many many reasons I return every year.