I spent my 42nd birthday on a motorcycle, riding through the hills of Umbria and stopping for a late lunch in a beautiful little village called Orvieto. It was, from beginning to end, magnificent.
Famous mostly for Classico, a distinctive white wine blend, Orvieto is slanted straight up and home to a remarkable cathedral that has striped stone walls and streaked, marbleized stained glass, and a chapel with the entire book of Revelations depicted in glorious paintings by Luca Signorelli. John and I stopped briefly but had only a few minutes to look. Then we found Ristorante Antica Cantina, a savory-smelling little trattoria, where we ate homemade pasta with ragu and truffles — one of the best simple meals I’ve ever had.
We left Rome the next day, bound for Florence, and decided to take the train directly back to Orvieto. We wanted to spend a full hour or two in the cathedral. And lunch had been so spectacular, we were both anxious to try dinner there.
But the train to Orvieto was a bit late [where IS Mussolini these days?] and by the time we got in, bought a bottle of Classico for €3.50 (a little over $5), and found a nice hotel, we were beat. Also just a tad over budget. We’re taking a beating on the dollar-euro exchange rate, of course. And well. . . .there is all this wine and food to experience. . . .
So we sat in the hotel room, drinking the entire bottle which was crisp and semi-sweet and full of tropical fruit: banana, kiwi, and lime. Then, for the sake of ease and because we’d so loved it, we headed back to Antica Cantina, anxious — cost be damned — to see what the full dinner menu would bring.
We walked in right past the owner, who had served us the day before. He scowled — a large, bearded man, rather like Stromboli in Pinnochio — and we assumed it had nothing to do with us. We sat. A waiter came to take our drink order. And when he brought us the tiny half-flask we had asked for (mostly out of politeness, because we’d had enough wine), he also set down a bread basket. That’s when I realized I was really hungry, queasy almost, and had had a bit too much Classico on an empty stomach.
So, I reached for a slice of bread and asked for some olive oil. . . .
Utter mayhem ensued. The owner was sitting at a neighboring table, drinking himself (who knows how heavily?). He heard my request, jumped out of his seat, bolted to our table and said, "Order now!"
I explained in my five words of acquired Italian that I needed just a moment to consult the phrase book, that we’d been in for lunch the day before — didn’t he recall? — and would like to try something else. But the menu was all in Italian and difficult to parse.
He heard all this (or not), and raised his voice this time: "You order NOW!"
He was not in the business of bread, he went on. He was in the business of bruschetta and pasta and zuppa. He pointed to the piece of bread out of which I’d taken a bite, leaned down into my face and screamed, "YOU ORDER NOW!!!"
Well, we did. John and I ordered exactly the same dishes we’d had the day before, down to the mixed salad. Five minutes later, our meal was literally thrown on the table in front of us. We ate like prisoners being watched. And the moment we’d put our forks down, the dishes were cleared and a check slammed onto the table along with a pen.
I take from this experience three things: One, that I did not do my homework properly. I made a cultural gaffe in asking for olive oil before ordering my meal, and for this I feel sincerely stupid. Two, that the tourism industry is suffering from the exchange rate that has us — and nearly every other American tourist — discussing finances before they sit down to a European meal.
And three? That there is a completely insane restaurateur running loose on the streets of Orvieto.
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