Getting Limoncello
My last day in Rome, I’d done some errands and visited one final museum. I had no need for adventure and by sunset, I simply wanted dinner.
I’d noted dining possibilities on my way to the museum. Unfortunately when I retraced my path after dark, I found only unappealing trattorias along the block that had promised easy choices.
I walked on and at the end of another block, lights from a restaurant glowed and drew me to it.
A waitress stood on the front steps taking a break. She smiled as I looked past her into the window. “Why not come in for dinner?” she said. Sure, why not? I said, amused at my laziness.
The waitress grabbed a menu and led me downstairs to a warm dining room and to a table perfect for a solo traveler—to one side but with a good view of the room.
The restaurant sat in an area dense with hotels so I expected that a tourist meal awaited me. Instead, the menu offered exactly what I wanted: Grilled lamb chops, roasted potatoes and spinaci.
I ordered in Italian from the owner, a woman my age with bright orange hair and tanning-studio skin. Then I watched her direct the young staff of seeming circus performers who flew up and down the stairs, balancing overloaded trays overhead and avoiding collisions, all the while putting smiles on nervous tourist faces.
When I finished my dinner, I ordered un caffè from the impressive ringmaster and thanked her for a fine meal. A moment later, a flying waiter swooped to a stop at my table.
“A limoncello on the house,” he said, placing a thimble of the bright yellow liquor before me.
No one else in the restaurant had limoncello.
When I left, I stopped the orange-topped woman and told her how impressed I was with her management skills. “Thank you so much for the limoncello,” I ended. “Thank you so much for speaking such good Italian,” she explained.
She vanished into the kitchen and I flew home on the compliment.
I’ve been home a little more than a week. My body struggles to adjust to the bright California sun that sets when my body thinks it should rise. My typing fingers race to capture the still-vivid images of Italy before the pictures follow the sunset and fade forever.
My husband and I drive past the airport near our house and he points to the jet that sits close to the freeway, “That’s your plane, that’s the one you came in on.” We’d be taking the departing flight from that gate tonight if we could.
I miss Italy: the bristling energy, the crazy logic, and the particular bouquet that is Rome—brewing coffee, baking pizza, motorini exhaust, expensive perfume, and la terra, the musty vapor that rises from the ochre soil whenever cobblestones are moved for repair.
I will return to Italy, but next time maybe I will stay a long, long time. Maybe then I will finally become fluent.
About the Author:Bonnie Smetts first fell in love with Italian when she decided to take a few classes before visiting a friend who’d moved to Umbria. Five years later, she’s studied all the grammar, read stack of classics, and participated in myriad conversation groups. The time has come for her to be fluent in Italian.
I’d noted dining possibilities on my way to the museum. Unfortunately when I retraced my path after dark, I found only unappealing trattorias along the block that had promised easy choices.
I walked on and at the end of another block, lights from a restaurant glowed and drew me to it.
A waitress stood on the front steps taking a break. She smiled as I looked past her into the window. “Why not come in for dinner?” she said. Sure, why not? I said, amused at my laziness.
The waitress grabbed a menu and led me downstairs to a warm dining room and to a table perfect for a solo traveler—to one side but with a good view of the room.
The restaurant sat in an area dense with hotels so I expected that a tourist meal awaited me. Instead, the menu offered exactly what I wanted: Grilled lamb chops, roasted potatoes and spinaci.
I ordered in Italian from the owner, a woman my age with bright orange hair and tanning-studio skin. Then I watched her direct the young staff of seeming circus performers who flew up and down the stairs, balancing overloaded trays overhead and avoiding collisions, all the while putting smiles on nervous tourist faces.
When I finished my dinner, I ordered un caffè from the impressive ringmaster and thanked her for a fine meal. A moment later, a flying waiter swooped to a stop at my table.
“A limoncello on the house,” he said, placing a thimble of the bright yellow liquor before me.
No one else in the restaurant had limoncello.
When I left, I stopped the orange-topped woman and told her how impressed I was with her management skills. “Thank you so much for the limoncello,” I ended. “Thank you so much for speaking such good Italian,” she explained.
She vanished into the kitchen and I flew home on the compliment.
I’ve been home a little more than a week. My body struggles to adjust to the bright California sun that sets when my body thinks it should rise. My typing fingers race to capture the still-vivid images of Italy before the pictures follow the sunset and fade forever.
My husband and I drive past the airport near our house and he points to the jet that sits close to the freeway, “That’s your plane, that’s the one you came in on.” We’d be taking the departing flight from that gate tonight if we could.
I miss Italy: the bristling energy, the crazy logic, and the particular bouquet that is Rome—brewing coffee, baking pizza, motorini exhaust, expensive perfume, and la terra, the musty vapor that rises from the ochre soil whenever cobblestones are moved for repair.
I will return to Italy, but next time maybe I will stay a long, long time. Maybe then I will finally become fluent.
About the Author:Bonnie Smetts first fell in love with Italian when she decided to take a few classes before visiting a friend who’d moved to Umbria. Five years later, she’s studied all the grammar, read stack of classics, and participated in myriad conversation groups. The time has come for her to be fluent in Italian.
