A word must be said about the waiters here, because they are as much a part of the theater as the models and the certifiably insane; the two largest groups represented.
There are many of them: swarming army ants of men, silently putting things in front of you, taking things away, patting children, flirting with old ladies, laughing at the jokes of the daft and the drunk , enduring the needs of soccer players' girlfriends, and all the while they are the real stars of the show. Firstly, some of them are movie star handsome and all of them are, as Claus says, the absolute best in the world.
In the evening they are dressed up, with the head guys in black tie. The one that is in charge of our table (or rather the head guy associated with us...there are at least 5 other regular waiters who rush around the table as well) is this matinee idol, soft spoken thing that is impossible to talk to. He caught me outside once when I was in a full length, white semi Grecian number that is great, except from the back-it looks only good from the front. And I hear this silky voice behind me say Good night....and all I can think of is crap....I look bad from behind..why did I not hear him coming? and then I wonder if there is any significance to his saying Good night (notte) instead of the usual Good evening (sera) and by the time I realize I have not uttered any of my famous witticisms in any language, he is gone.
In fact he had the same effect on Eloise because nothing smooth ever seemed to come out of our mouths around him. This is the way it works , at night, the head guy and only he, takes your order. He approaches quietly, at exactly the moment, somehow, when you have chosen. He calls me madam. (This hurts a bit because I think after all these years we are closer than that. But alas).
It is a sacred and private moment between you and him. More like giving confession than ordering dinner. No one else hears, and no matter what I ask for, it seems like he is a bit disappointed. Maybe it is my imagination....
Clearly there has been some training that they are not to fraternize with the ladies, unless the ladies are very old or really asking for it....no Ciao bella!! here. And my god, the women they have to pretend not to be looking at!
It starts to make you crazy. I mean come on! You are Italian!! I cannot do better than this! the other night I had what appeared to be a flicker of recognition that I was a girl when I really made an effort...wore red, wore lipstick, hell I even brushed my hair. And this was all I got: I came around the corner, and his head went back just a tiny bit...and then I am pretty sure he grabbed the tiniest peek down my little red dress. Basta. The I ordered pesto and he told me to say 12 hail marys.
The lunch guy is even worse, or better depending on your definition. He has this amazing, possibly broken nose and wildly colored eyes and he says almost nothing. It is terrifying...so much that i have had to give up arugula at lunch because of the risk it will be hanging from my mouth when he inevitably comes by. There is not a thought that does not pop into my head, that he doesn't anticipate. He knows, even though we skipped last year, what we drink, and how we eat. If he sees that I eat only one kind of cookie, the next time he brings only that kind. Thomas tried to pour some of his own water and he materialized out of nowhere before a drop could come out of the bottle.
But then of course there are the Sicilians. The one semi rogue element at the Cala di Volpe; the one group most resistant to the delicate, sexism training. One in particular fell hard for Eloise, and sticks to me in the vain hope she will appear again, like Jesus, at my elbow. He calls me California and I call him Sicilia, and we have a little game-see if I can lift my own plate for the salad buffet before he shoots across the dining room to hand it to me.
How I love him. It is a perfect relationship; I mean it, we never, ever fight.
Today at lunch I went to order at the grill...one can have anything at this buffet, and the fish is strangely good. But I cannot decide.... I am discussing this with the lunch head guy who stands in front of the grill, because god forbid you should discuss these things directly with the cook....(forgive me father for I have sinned and I cannot choose between the swordfish and salmon...) and I hear this familiar accent from under a chef's hat, an accent straight out of a mafia movie: You are going to have the salmon, and I am going to make it for you, and it will be the best salmon you have ever had. Oh and what are you doing later.
I had the salmon.
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