noodles that were cooked just right. Sue and I both agreed we never had eaten such good lasagna.
“I think I have a new favorite hangout,” Sue said, looking around. “Waterfront dining even. Although we still have to put this place to the true test and try some of their gelato.”
Sue asked our waiter, in what I thought was a too-loud voice, “What do you think is the best flavor?”
“Fragole.”
Sue looked to me for approval or for a translation; I wasn’t sure which. I had no idea what fragole was, but I was willing to be surprised, so I gave a supportive nod. Sue ordered
“do-aye fra-goal-ee”
without any idea what we were getting.
The colorful dessert dishes were delivered with a triangular-shaped wafer stuck in the side of a smear of what turned out to be strawberry gelato. I say smear because it looked as if the waiter had taken a small spatula andpacked the gelato into the dish rather than scooping it with a rounded spoon.
Sue tried her first taste with an exacting, discerning air. Smacking her lips, she tried a second taste. “Superb. Bright taste. The strawberry flavor comes through clear and sweet without being overpowering.”
I laughed. “You’re going to turn into a gelato snob, I hope you know.”
“There are worse things.”
“You know, Sue, I’m wondering if you need to develop a scale system here.”
“Why? To see how much I weigh before and after I sample all the gelato?”
“No, you nut. I mean a scale of one to ten to rate your favorite.”
“Excellent idea. I give this one a 7.5. No, an 8.” She pulled out her notebook. Her unabashed love affair with Italian gelato was in full bloom as she listed her rating.
“What do you rate this
fra-goal-ee
flavor?”
“I’d give it a five.”
“Only a five?”
“Okay, a 5.5 but that’s my top score. It’s nice, but I’m not wild about strawberries.”
“You’re kidding! I never knew that. What about berries in general? Blueberries?”
I shrugged. “I can take them or leave them. Now, when it comes to apricots …”
“Look it up,” Sue said. “Look up the Italian word for ‘apricot.’ We’ll see if they have it.”
I flipped through my book and read the word
albicocca
.
Sue made a joke out of the way I pronounced it. “All right, then. You be a Coca Cola and ahl be a Pepsi.”
It took me a minute to catch her joke. The waiter approached as I was laughing, and Sue cracked me up even more when she said to him, “Excuse me, sir, but do y’all have
ahl-be-a-coca
ice cream? I mean, gel-ah-toe?”
He looked to me for translation, and in between swallowing my laughter, I formulated the request in a combination of English and Italian and pointed to the word for ‘apricot’ in my phrase book.
“No.” His answer was clear and simple. He walked away.
“Okay, then,” Sue said. “We’ll just take our gelato business elsewhere. Maybe our Paolo has apricot gelato.”
“Do you want to walk back there now to find out?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? I’m ready to walk back to our palace and take a princess-sized nap. Aren’t you tired?”
“I could sleep.”
With our stomachs satisfied and the heat of the day rising, Sue and I meandered back to our “palace” and worked the key in the front entry. We stumbled our way across the dark, dirt floor and slowly hiked up the three flights ofmarble stairs. Unlocking the front door took a little more effort with the persnickety locks. But all our work was rewarded when we entered the beautifully cool palace. Instead of winding down the hall to the princess beds, we made a beeline for the two couches in the sitting room. It was the coolest room in the house and immensely inviting.
We didn’t even close the shutters to the mid-day brightness. In tandem motion, both of us spread out on the comfortable couches and drifted into our afternoon siestas as if we had been raised on the custom.
The sleep I experienced that day was deep. Deep, restorative, and sweet. I
“I think I have a new favorite hangout,” Sue said, looking around. “Waterfront dining even. Although we still have to put this place to the true test and try some of their gelato.”
Sue asked our waiter, in what I thought was a too-loud voice, “What do you think is the best flavor?”
“Fragole.”
Sue looked to me for approval or for a translation; I wasn’t sure which. I had no idea what fragole was, but I was willing to be surprised, so I gave a supportive nod. Sue ordered
“do-aye fra-goal-ee”
without any idea what we were getting.
The colorful dessert dishes were delivered with a triangular-shaped wafer stuck in the side of a smear of what turned out to be strawberry gelato. I say smear because it looked as if the waiter had taken a small spatula andpacked the gelato into the dish rather than scooping it with a rounded spoon.
Sue tried her first taste with an exacting, discerning air. Smacking her lips, she tried a second taste. “Superb. Bright taste. The strawberry flavor comes through clear and sweet without being overpowering.”
I laughed. “You’re going to turn into a gelato snob, I hope you know.”
“There are worse things.”
“You know, Sue, I’m wondering if you need to develop a scale system here.”
“Why? To see how much I weigh before and after I sample all the gelato?”
“No, you nut. I mean a scale of one to ten to rate your favorite.”
“Excellent idea. I give this one a 7.5. No, an 8.” She pulled out her notebook. Her unabashed love affair with Italian gelato was in full bloom as she listed her rating.
“What do you rate this
fra-goal-ee
flavor?”
“I’d give it a five.”
“Only a five?”
“Okay, a 5.5 but that’s my top score. It’s nice, but I’m not wild about strawberries.”
“You’re kidding! I never knew that. What about berries in general? Blueberries?”
I shrugged. “I can take them or leave them. Now, when it comes to apricots …”
“Look it up,” Sue said. “Look up the Italian word for ‘apricot.’ We’ll see if they have it.”
I flipped through my book and read the word
albicocca
.
Sue made a joke out of the way I pronounced it. “All right, then. You be a Coca Cola and ahl be a Pepsi.”
It took me a minute to catch her joke. The waiter approached as I was laughing, and Sue cracked me up even more when she said to him, “Excuse me, sir, but do y’all have
ahl-be-a-coca
ice cream? I mean, gel-ah-toe?”
He looked to me for translation, and in between swallowing my laughter, I formulated the request in a combination of English and Italian and pointed to the word for ‘apricot’ in my phrase book.
“No.” His answer was clear and simple. He walked away.
“Okay, then,” Sue said. “We’ll just take our gelato business elsewhere. Maybe our Paolo has apricot gelato.”
“Do you want to walk back there now to find out?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? I’m ready to walk back to our palace and take a princess-sized nap. Aren’t you tired?”
“I could sleep.”
With our stomachs satisfied and the heat of the day rising, Sue and I meandered back to our “palace” and worked the key in the front entry. We stumbled our way across the dark, dirt floor and slowly hiked up the three flights ofmarble stairs. Unlocking the front door took a little more effort with the persnickety locks. But all our work was rewarded when we entered the beautifully cool palace. Instead of winding down the hall to the princess beds, we made a beeline for the two couches in the sitting room. It was the coolest room in the house and immensely inviting.
We didn’t even close the shutters to the mid-day brightness. In tandem motion, both of us spread out on the comfortable couches and drifted into our afternoon siestas as if we had been raised on the custom.
The sleep I experienced that day was deep. Deep, restorative, and sweet. I
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