As I approach table four, the lady in the group is in mid-conversation, gesticulating wildly. I stand there patiently waiting for her to finish, but I’minvisible.
‘Scusi,’ I whisper, fingers now burning. I attempt to navigate my way around and aim for the empty space in front of her. But just as the plate is about to make contact with its target, she waves her arms again, and it smashes to the floor, the warm roll shooting across the table, hot minestrone soup flying everywhere: over her, me, the tablecloth, the wall. ‘Scusi,’ I say, grabbingher napkin, frantically plucking cubes of celery and carrot from her doubtless designer suit.
I feel every pair of diner’s eyes drilling through me. A concerned Luigi emerges from behind the bar.
‘Mamma mia, va bene?’
I’ve poured countless glasses of red wine and cups of hot drinks through tropical storms and clear air turbulence without spilling a drop, but I am to learn that there’sa certain knack to negotiating one’s way around the arms of excitable, gesticulating Italians.
Luigi rescues the situation by offering the table complimentary wine and an invitation to the opening.
My proud ego is telling me to run out of the door, never to return. Mindful me is telling me to let go of who I used to be: the super-efficient, confident purser, in charge of a 747 cabin. Therules are different here, and I must give it time and be open to learning new skills.
* * *
The final customers gone, and the tables cleared. Nonna Maria shuffles in from the kitchen, bearing a huge casserole dish, and beckons for me to sit down. Luigi opens a bottle of red wine, and Rosalba places a basket of warm bread on the table.
Sergio sits scowling in the corner, long legs crossed,chewing on a cocktail stick.
‘Mangia, mangia! Eat!’ says Nonna Maria, nodding to me as she drizzles olive oil onto the bread; and more and more food keeps appearing.
Rosalba recalls that Nonna Maria used to make the main dish every Sunday for the family when Luigi was a little boy living in Naples. TheAgnello All’Albertoneis the best lamb I have ever tasted, and the Montepulciano slidesdown deliciously, making me feel all warm and cosy inside.
As air crew I’d wolf down my food, standing up in the galley, eye on the clock, frequently interrupted by demanding passengers. Tonight I savour the flavour of each mouthful, happy to be here, in this moment – even if I don’t understand most of what’s being said, or that the chef has taken an instant dislike to me.
Pedalling home,I stop on the bridge and look out over the river, the moon and the lights from the bars and hotels reflected on the glassy water. I breathe in the cool air. A train rumbles in the distance, a flock of Canada geese honks as they fly low over the river, disappearing into the black distance.
For the second time tonight I’m aware I’m living in the present, appreciating what’s going on around me,instead of allowing things to pass me by unnoticed, because my mind is tied up elsewhere. Could this be the effect of the Montepulciano, or am I at last learning to slow down and let go of the past?
* * *
Now with some cash to spare, I invest in new publicity photographs, a showreel, a voice demo, and the latest edition ofContacts. I make calls and send e-mails every day to agents andcasting directors. Replies are rare and mostly negative: too old, too young, too tall, too short, too fair, not famous enough. It’s pointless griping about the situation; frown lines are ageing, and besides, no one’s listening. So I immerse myself in writing my play, practising yoga every day, and chantI am opening myself to new possibilitieswhenever I am out of earshot.
I now know myconchigliefrom mytortellini, and when I’m waiting to take orders, I’m honing those all-important character observation skills, which Portia taught us are crucial to becoming a truthful actor.
When the mood takes him, the ice-cold Sergio is starting to thaw a little now and manages to crack the odd smile. To be honest, he’s becoming a tadtoofriendly these days. There’s an outdoor, walk-in fridge,and when I go to fetch the butter and the ice he sometimes creeps up behind me and kisses the back of my neck. His breath reeks of garlic and nicotine.
‘Reeeelax,cucciolo,’ (puppy dog – eek!) he says, massaging my shoulders. ‘You are verrrrry tense.’ I’ve learned a few choice words likebasta!(enough!) andfiniscila!(bog off!), which I deploy with as much firmness as I can muster, but itdoesn’t make the slightest bit of difference, even when accompanied by emphatic sign language; in fact my attempt at acting Italian encourages Sergio to tease me even more.
What can I do? He’s married to Valentina, Luigi’s youngest daughter, so I can hardly go running to him, can I? I have to deal with this on my own. I don’t want the situation to be blown out of proportion. No, definitelybest to keep this under wraps. Godfather-like blood feuds to be avoided at all costs.
My favourite part of the night is when the last customer has left – my cue to flip over theCHIUSO/CLOSED sign. Luigi calls, ‘A cena!’ and we gather around the table.
My spoken Italian may not be up to much, but I’m learning to eat like one: i.e. slowly and a lot. So how come the majority of Italiansstay healthy and trim? Those time-tested recipes fromnonna’skitchen contain more wisdom than any fad diet, that’s why. The courses may be many, but the portions are smaller, tastier, and leave you wanting more. No mounds of soggy spaghetti, topped with sauce from a jar and a shake of Italian-style cheese powder here, but home-made pasta cookedal dente,served with sauces made from sweet, buffalotomatoes, rosemary, basil, ricotta, aubergines, and oregano, sprinkled with shavings of fresh parmesan.
* * *
OPERA CABARET JUNE 16th
JOIN US AT IL MULINO FOR WINE,
SONG & HOME-COOKED, TRADITIONAL FOOD.
A TASTE OF THE WARM SOUTH BROUGHT TO
RICHMOND-UPON-THAMES.
Luigi beams. ‘Perfetto!’ he says, smoothing the local newspaper out on the table. ‘Allora, is everythingready for tomorrow? Sergio, I need your final shopping list by the end of tonight,d’accordo?’ Sergio loosens the collar of his chef’s jacket and gives a bad-tempered shrug.
