Dinner (Mis)adventures in Milano

I wake up from my short nap in a slightly pissy mood. Its our last night in Milan, we promised The Pharmacist we would meet him and a friend for dinner, and its too late to flake. Id been walking around all day and had ended my night at the Cimitero Monumentale, which was an interesting experience to say the least, and to top it off, I had gotten lost trying to get back to the hotel, since the Cemetary was at the end of the world. The last thing I wanted to do was get out of bed and throw some clothes on, especially bc we were planning to be on a 725am train to Venice, which meant we would have to wake up at the ass crack of dawn. No thank you to a late night out.

But I have no choice so, I grumpily get out of bed, try on 3 or 4 outfits until I find one that is acceptable (I am totally going for warmth and comfort, not cuteness), throw some important stuff in my purse, and head out, sans make-up, hair in a loose pony tail.

We meet up and have to stop by the friend’s office to pick him up. The friend, we are told, works in Politics and Culture. Im not sure exactly what that means, but I dont think it really matters. They give us some beautiful books as a gift to remind us of Italy, they say, which is very sweet. If ever there were 2 girls who loved books, Monet and I are them; granted these are in a language neither of us understands, but it’s the thought that counts. Never mind that they are from a shelf that holds 20 copies of each title on it – the kind of thing you give everybody who comes to your office, basically. Never mind also that we will now have to carry these books around Europe for the next 2 months, and that neither of us will throw them away to save ourselves from this extra weight, bc thats just not something you do to books. Dammit.

But I digress.

We walk to the restaurant, a place we are told is very authentic and non-touristy. Awesome, I think. Ive woken up at this point and Im not grumpy anymore, which is a plus for those around me. I cant wait to have some authentic pasta! I have one rule I must follow in Italy, and that is to eat pasta every day I am here, since I refrain from regularly eating it at home. So far, Ive had overpriced rubbery pasta, beautifully-presented but only OK-tasting pasta, and tonight will be the 3rd attempt – I am hoping for something exceptional. High hopes I have, high…

We start with prosecco and antipasti. The prosecco is fabulous. The antipasto is new; Ive never tasted prosciutto in my life, and the serving dish arrives w/ thin slices of some other type of meat at the very top, the prosciutto draped over the sides of the first tier of the dish, with salami, mozzarella, cherry tomatoes and pickled onions on the second tier. I decide today will be the day I try this meat that Ive successfully avoided for so long.

I sample everything. The mystery meat at the top is delicious, I wish I could remember what its called. The salami, eccellente. The pickled onions, awesome. The prosciutto. Hmmm. Its sliced so thin and its so tender that it forms a mushy, salty glob in my mouth. I try the rest of the piece on my plate. Still don’t like it. The Italians are appalled.

We move on to another type of wine, drier than the prosecco. I hope this doesn’t cause a migraine tonight, as it usually does. We’ve been here a while at this point, and no one seems hurried. “When the hell are we ordering dinner,” I wonder. Neither one of the Italians look concerned. Im not used to a meal being such a drawn out affair. I am truly enjoying myself and my surroundings, but as time goes on, Im running out of conversation topics… This would be a good time to mention that The Politician doesnt speak any English. So we have to guess everything he’s saying. And we speak zero Italian. So Ill let you imagine how fun it is trying to communicate. I had done enough of this in Spain, the speaking slowly and enunciating every syllable, the trying to find simpler ways to get a phrase across, the having one person (in this case The Pharmacist) translate everything. I am mentally exhausted.

Finally we order. The menu is in Italian, of course. The Politician explains some dishes and I go with one that is pasta w/ fish and potatoes. Sounds great and I cant wait! I imagine a plate w/ a fillet of fish on it, potatoes on the side, pasta noodles right next to them. Yum.

Theres more talking, guessing, and conversation pulled out of my you-know-what. Slowly but surely, Il Politico is getting on my nerves. The food arrives what seems like hours later, and I dig in. Im not sure what kind of meat is mixed in w/ my pasta and potatoes, and I forget what I ordered and assume its chicken. I look at it from time to time and think it looks a little funny. I take a few bites of it. I don’t remember what it tastes like.

I move in for another forkful, a quarter-way thru my meal at this point. And then I see it. It cant be. Oh, God, say it isn’t so. I gently pick it up w/ the flat of my fork, as I cant bear to spear it w/ the prongs, and hold it up for all to see.

“Is this octopus,” I say dryly. No one answers. “Is this octopus,” I repeat.

It is. I am gingerly holding on my fork a baby tentacle. Good Lord. This is what I get for allowing a non-English speaking person to translate a menu for me. Serves me right, I think. I had tried to go outside my comfort zone, figured the restaurant was wonderful, and that whatever I ordered would be delicious. But I was not expecting suction cups.

I play w/ my food and try to pick around the 8-armed creature on my plate. Ive completely lost my appetite, tho I try to fake it. No one is fooled. I am being a good sport tho; I manage to eat roughly half of the plate before I give up. If it weren’t for our tentacled friend, I would never leave that much pasta on my plate, uneaten. As if.

After the main meal, there is more wine. There is a tiny shot of something which I dont like, but it’s paired w/ a sweet cream dessert in a tiny cup, which I do like. There is laughter and, unfortunately, more talk. More conversations pulled out of my you-know-what, had in broken English and broken Italian. Some French and Spanish thrown in for good measure. There is espresso for them, authentic Italian macchiatos for us. There is Mirto, a god-awful after-dinner liquer that smells like perfume and tastes like ugh. Monet and I take 2 small sips. The Italians finish the bottle. I think theyre pretty tipsy by now, which makes The Politician even more annoying. I am completely sober, as I suspect Monet is.

I look around. The restaurant has emptied out. We are the only ones still sitting there, oblivious, while the waiters clean the other tables and shut down for the night. I reflect that, if The Politician hadn’t been steadily getting on my nerves as time progressed, this would have been a perfect night. I have learned the true beauty of what it means to have an Italian dinner. It is about the company and the conversation, as much as, if not more than, the food. Its about taking the time to taste what you are eating, really have an eating experience, as opposed to throwing the food down our throats, which is what we do in America. It is about friends and family and laughing and, believe it or not, enjoying life. I love the concept.

Eventually the bill is settled and we are dropped off at our hotel. Monet & I enjoy recapping the adventures of the evening as we get ready for bed. We agree that theres no way in hell we’ll be able to wake up in a few short hours to catch our train, and decide to take the following one at 525pm. Tomorrow, Venice! Tonight, blissful, sound sleep…