An Italian Ancedote
So last night I had the pleasure of having a meal cooked for me by an living walking cooking Italian stereotype.
I was thinking it was a party (as he said it wouldn't be ready until 9, which here in Tartu means party). I come in and hear Italian lounge music (see any Italian dining establishment for more details) and I see there are only two plates. I asked where everyone else was, he looked a bit frazzled. I was really flattered and the food was more than amazing, salmon pasta and wine. I could tell he was really trying to be smooth. Seduce even? Spending the evening giving me subtle compliments (mostly about my dancing ablity, as we had met at the club the night before). All the while Italians of various stereotypes came walking in and out and muttering things about "privacy" and I invited them to join us and to have some wine. All my invitations were turned down.
After dinner, as is the Italian style, he (the chef) brewed some espresso on the stove top. I usually take my espresso without sugar, but I was feeling like I might try it tonight just because I wanted something sweet. We sat down again and Marco puts a giant jar of sugar on the table. He spoons a lot into his and I just a bit into mine. I take a sip and give an odd look.
"Marco, are you sure that's sugar?"
"Of course it is what else would it be?" he says with true Italian cockiness at my odd American questions
He takes a sip of his and runs immediately to the sink.
Salt.
Oh salty espresso, quite possibly the only thing to counter Italian ego. Cryptonite.
I was thinking it was a party (as he said it wouldn't be ready until 9, which here in Tartu means party). I come in and hear Italian lounge music (see any Italian dining establishment for more details) and I see there are only two plates. I asked where everyone else was, he looked a bit frazzled. I was really flattered and the food was more than amazing, salmon pasta and wine. I could tell he was really trying to be smooth. Seduce even? Spending the evening giving me subtle compliments (mostly about my dancing ablity, as we had met at the club the night before). All the while Italians of various stereotypes came walking in and out and muttering things about "privacy" and I invited them to join us and to have some wine. All my invitations were turned down.
After dinner, as is the Italian style, he (the chef) brewed some espresso on the stove top. I usually take my espresso without sugar, but I was feeling like I might try it tonight just because I wanted something sweet. We sat down again and Marco puts a giant jar of sugar on the table. He spoons a lot into his and I just a bit into mine. I take a sip and give an odd look.
"Marco, are you sure that's sugar?"
"Of course it is what else would it be?" he says with true Italian cockiness at my odd American questions
He takes a sip of his and runs immediately to the sink.
Salt.
Oh salty espresso, quite possibly the only thing to counter Italian ego. Cryptonite.