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Another Crazy Italian Dining Experience

For the next couple of days, Jack Sh*t is chronicling his adventures on his recent trip to Italy as well as including tips to help you plan your own international travel. It is his special way of saying "Nanna nanna boo boo, I went to Italy!" to all his loyal readers.

 Our first dining experience in Cortona, Italy, turned out to be a lovely, up-scale restaurant that was just a slight bit unnerving because we were the only diners there. However, the food was fantastic, the wine was exquisite and the service terrific.

The next night, my wife Anita and I decided to try one of the city’s most popular places, a well-reviewed, don’t-miss spot that we (having not learned our lesson) haven’t made reservations for on a Saturday night.

But it’s way early, so we decide to give it a try right as the doors open. The owner/maitre d' is a friendly, garrulous godfather-sort, smiling broadly as we tell him our sob story about why we don’t have reservations (“We’re stupid!”).

He leads us to a table two feet away from where we’re standing, at the front door. With just the slightest hesitation, we give the wait staff our coats, take our seats and give an “it-all-worked-out” smile to one another. The waitress pours us some water and we start looking over the menu.

That’s when all kinds of crazy started to break out…

A group of would-be diners entered. Apparently it was some folks the owner knew, because they all stood there talking loudly and animatedly in Italian. Another couple entered and went to the bar, which was right on the other side of our tiny table. All of a sudden, it was as if we were sitting in a beehive.

Anita and I looked at one another, each of us getting more and more uncomfortable with the setting and realizing that it was only going to get worse as more people began arriving. However, considering that restaurants here charge a seating fee and no-telling-what for water, we were already on the hook.

It got louder and louder, until we finally agreed that even if the food was the best ever prepared, there was no way we were going to enjoy this meal. We were having the other kind of reservations, we told the waitress, who didn’t speaka the language. We wanted out!

The owner came over and made a big show of releasing us from our dining obligation. He was friendly enough, but there was a slight tinge of sour grapes that had nothing to do with the wine list.

Shaken slightly, we headed back to the restaurant we had enjoyed so much the day before, hoping we could finagle our way in on a busy Saturday night.

It turned out not to be a problem, as we were the only other diners once again. And once again, it was an outstanding meal (except, if I had it to do over, I probably wouldn’t order the sea monster).

Obviously, this was our place.

When’s the Best Time For a Gondola Ride? Right This Very Second!

For the next few days, Jack Sh*t is chronicling his adventures on his recent trip to Italy as well as including tips to help you plan your own international travel. It is his special way of saying "Nanna nanna boo boo, I went to Italy!" to all his loyal readers.

 

Every time my wife Anita and I spoke to a gondolier while in Venice, he assured us that that very moment was the best time to take a gondola ride.

10 a.m.? The perfect time! You beat the crowds!

1:30 p.m.? The ideal time! Everyone’s at lunch so you get a better deal!

4:45 p.m.? No time perfecter! Everyone else is preoccupied buying genuine Italian glass made in China!

We finally broke down and took a gondola ride. I mean, you have to! It’s Venice, for God’s sake! Yes, it’s touristy and cost too much, but you just have to do it.


Do’s and Don’t of Gondola Rides in Venice

DO negotiate for the cost, details and duration of your ride.

DON’T pay with a jar of pennies and nickels.

DO ask your gondolier to sing a beautiful Italian ballad.

DON’T ask your gondolier to riverdance.

DO sit back and enjoy the splendor of an old-world tradition.

DON’T engage in gondola races along the Grand Canal.

DO nod in appreciation when the gondolier tells you that you’re passing the home of Marco Polo.

DON’T ask if he’s the dude that invented that pool game.

DO use this as an opportunity to practice your Italian.

DON’T use this as an opportunity to join the “Rock the Gondola” club.

DO offer a friendly wave to folks on bridges as you go beneath.

DON’T scream out “LOOK AT ME! I’M ON A GONDOLA, BITCHES!”

The Really Good Restaurant Adventure

For the next few days, Jack Sh*t is chronicling his adventures on his recent trip to Italy as well as including tips to help you plan your own international travel. It is his special way of saying "Nanna nanna boo boo, I went to Italy!" to all his loyal readers.

 Mostly our eating plan while on our Italian vacation has been (a) to stop someplace that looks pretty good when we’re hungry and/or (b) stop someplace that looks really good whether we’re hungry or not.

However, I had some across a tremendously well-reviewed restaurant that my wife Anita and I were dying to try.

I wasn’t sure either of us was going to have much of an appetite after visiting the Rialto Street Market, a huge collection of vendors peddling fresh fruits, vegetables and seafood. The appetite-killer was the little butcher shop that appeared to specialize in horse-meat. Giddy-up!

After a morning wandering through the market and an afternoon of more ancient church visiting (and stair-climbing), we decide to make our way to the restaurant for an early dinner.


All the guidebooks tell you one of the things to do in Venice is to “get lost”. Seeing as how the “streets” appear to be designed by a committee of lunatics, we have no trouble at all following this advice. As a matter of fact, we appear to spend most of our time fully dazed and disoriented.

I finally bite the bullet and turn on the data roaming on my iPhone, with the full understanding that it’s probably going to cost my daughter Pisa her college education. Thankfully, the phone’s GPS figures out where we are and leads us to our destination straightaway.

Unfortunately, it’s 5:30 and the restaurant doesn’t open until 7 p.m. Hungry and dejected, we wander over to a neighborhood park and hang out for a bit, watching some local kids race scooters around and older folks let their dogs visit the one phone-booth-sized square of grass in the area.

We get back to the restaurant right as it opens and, of course we hear the inevitable “Do you have a reservation?”

Whoops.

Apparently other people read reviews, too, and the place is booked for both tonight and tomorrow night, our last night in Venice. Anita has the good sense to check on lunch the next day (they do).

The next day, we give ourselves plenty of time to find the spot again. However, we spent so much time around the restaurant yesterday that we know it like the back of our hand. We walk straight to the place, and wind up getting there over an hour early. Are you kidding me?

We head back to our park to kill another 75 minutes, and I start getting worried that the expectations for this meal can’t possibly live up to all the time we’ve invested in it. This is setting up to be a disaster.

 

  

An hour or so later, we’re at our table and purring over a cheese plate and tapping our sparking prosecco glasses together. We’ve declared this our honorary 25th wedding anniversary meal.

No, it’s not a late-night candle-lit dinner, but like our marriage it may be unconventional at times, it may be something that we’ve had to work at sometimes and… it’s everything we hoped it would be.

Cheers!

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