Dinner at Mickki’s

I figured I could probably stomach a simple pasta, so I headed to a small, international-student joint that Rick said was cheap and a good value near the Pantheon. I arrive and a surly looking, what we would call in the States “construction worker,” Italian seats me at my table for one. I ask him (in Italian) what the pasta of the day is. Without saying a word, he leaves the table and walks outside. Hmm, that was interesting…is my Italian really that bad??

A moment later, a much younger, better-looking waiter reports to me and I repeat my question (in English because now I’m self-conscious). He starts listing several options and I’m still a little too tired/weak to listen to this kind of a list so I cut him off and say, “Why don’t you just bring me your favorite, okay?” He accepts this answer and I tune out to Italian TV while I wait for my food.

A short while later, the construction-worker comes back with my food in hand. He sets it down in front of me and as I say grazie he takes both his hands and cups my face, looking at my tenderly, fatherly, and then leaves without a word. I could cry the gesture is so sweet. I frickin’ love it here.

I happily eat my food (which is a fat spaghetti-type noodle in a Bolognese sauce) and enjoy the easy ambiance. Predictably the cute waiter stops by to make sure the selection is va bene. I assure him I’m quite happy with it and he brings me a glass of the house wine made from strawberries (my perk for mentioning Rick Steves).

In the mean time, construction-worker dad waiter either gently touches my cheek or acknowledgingly squeezes my shoulder as he walks by. He must like me. One of these times I tell him I’m ready for my bill. He is clearly unhappy with this input, why I go? “My son, Romeo, (Ro-MAY-o) asked about you…” he says. Somehow I doubt this, but before I can explain or inquire further, he shouts to the bar for my bill.

But instead of my bill, cute waiter (presumably Romeo) shows up with a dessert (maybe he does like me…). Never one to turn down food, I thank him and eat it in it’s entirety. So construction-worker dad thinks he can keep me here with more food, eh? Well, heh, he’s right. But I am so stuffed at this point, if he doesn’t stop sending food my way, he’s going to find out exactly why I was inclined to go in the first place.

This time though, I wait it out for quite some time before I ask for the bill again. In the mean time, the ambiance has taken on more of a club feel. The lights have gotten dimmer, it’s suddenly full to the brim, and the music has gotten louder. I take a look around and indeed, Rick was right: everyone here is in an International School program. I decide that at 27, I’m too old for this place and beckon cute waiter to my table with my eyes.

It’s so loud that he leans down close to me to hear what I have to say. He leans so close, in fact, that I can feel myself nearly blushing at his proximity to my face and as I say, “Il conto, per favore” my voice unintentionally comes out low and kind of husky (how does it not when someone is that stinkin’ close to you!?). He moves to respond back (what I’m sure at this point can only be either a protest at my leaving so soon or an invitation to meet up later) and says, “Seven euro.” Oh. Heh heh. Sure thing! (Oh I am such an idiot…)

As I’m digging for my cash, he comes back with yet another glass of the house strawberry wine. Interesting…wasn’t expecting that. I take my time drinking it, rationalizing that if he wants to come and talk to me, he has certainly created the opportunity. But when I finally finish it, I haven’t seen hide or hare of him and when I take a gander around the room, he’s chatting with some club-bound student at the bar. Oh well, it’s probably for the best. There’s at least a 50% chance I’d throw up on him anyway.