We love you, but not long time
0 Comments Published by totallygone.com on Wednesday, December 28, 2005.

One of the greatest things about living in London (compared to, say, San Francisco) is how easy and quick it is to get away. Christmas is by far the best, best time not to be here. The three most cheerful faces in my office today are those that spent Christmas somewhere sunny, somewhere exotic, and somewhere that wasn't London.
Thirty years ago, my mother, cousin and I spent two weeks in Sorrento. Because we were made homeless earlier that year by an insane arsonist-cum-babysitter, my mother took it upon herself to take flight to sunnier shores, so she packed me up, brought my cousin along for company, and the three of us lived it up on the Amalfi Coast for Christmas and New Year. My mother was, at the time, thirty years old, and even more glamorous than she is now. So it was a smart move - the Hotel Royal, where we stayed, treated her as though she were the original English princess with two small boys in tow.
Bambini, schmambini
If you too want to be treated like visiting royalty when you visit Italy, take small children with you. Cute ones, blond(e) if at all possible, but not dyed. It's such a cliche, but really, Italians will love you much more if you're traveling with gli infanti (but not long time).
Older children, I found, are unlikely to fare as well. My mother and I discovered this to our cost when we dined at a lovely little restaurant on Sorrento's Marina Grande, Zi'ntonio Mare. I'd been recommended the place by my aunt, who took her grandchildren there daily when they stayed in Sorrento. They were, she said, treated as though they were - you guessed it - Wills and Harry en entourage. Arriving there the drenched from a sudden and unexpected downpour, my mother and I were welcomed as though we were the restaurant's only guests. With the exception of a pair of young drunks in a corner, we were, in fact, the only clientele. The remaining staff, a reserved-but-jovial headwaiter and his young assistant, a handsome, willowy fellow with an unlikely and incongruous paunch (that somehow seemed borrowed or stuck on), were clearly delighted to see us.
Strange frutti
Explaining that theirs was a famous fish restaurant, they offered us a medley of frutti di mare followed by some locally-caught white fish. We accepted, sipped our prosecco, and waited, listening to the soft drumming of raindrops on the roof. Soon, the dishes arrived - about four in all. So, naturally, we assumed that because it was late, the whole lot was being served simultaneously.
Gentle reader, we were very wrong. Just about everything that was left in the kitchen found its festive way to our table. Octopus (about two, nicely dissected), the other piled-high half of the plate crowded by squid and interesting pieces of unidentifiable fish. Delicious. Little chunks of white fish sat in another bowl, strewn with fronds of steamed spinach. Lovely. We ate, and ate. And ate. Christmas comes, etc.
Outside, the rain lashed the picturesque harbour. Inside, the drunks were allowed to smoke in their secluded corner. We finished eating, satisfied and relieved. The plates were removed, with polite smiles and offers of more prosecco.
Suddenly, they arrived with more cutlery. We were, of course, with our distended stomachs, quite shocked. "More?" I squeaked.
"Signor, maybe there has been some misunderstanding. The white fish is arriving soon." I realised that we were possibly in the presence of relatives of The Sopranos, and thought "hey, it's Christmas. Why not?" So we force-fed ourselves the fish, determined that its life not be lost in vain, downed a glass of limoncello, and sped away in a taxi that cost 20 euros for a three-minute drive.
Thirty years ago, my mother, cousin and I spent two weeks in Sorrento. Because we were made homeless earlier that year by an insane arsonist-cum-babysitter, my mother took it upon herself to take flight to sunnier shores, so she packed me up, brought my cousin along for company, and the three of us lived it up on the Amalfi Coast for Christmas and New Year. My mother was, at the time, thirty years old, and even more glamorous than she is now. So it was a smart move - the Hotel Royal, where we stayed, treated her as though she were the original English princess with two small boys in tow.
Bambini, schmambini
If you too want to be treated like visiting royalty when you visit Italy, take small children with you. Cute ones, blond(e) if at all possible, but not dyed. It's such a cliche, but really, Italians will love you much more if you're traveling with gli infanti (but not long time).
Older children, I found, are unlikely to fare as well. My mother and I discovered this to our cost when we dined at a lovely little restaurant on Sorrento's Marina Grande, Zi'ntonio Mare. I'd been recommended the place by my aunt, who took her grandchildren there daily when they stayed in Sorrento. They were, she said, treated as though they were - you guessed it - Wills and Harry en entourage. Arriving there the drenched from a sudden and unexpected downpour, my mother and I were welcomed as though we were the restaurant's only guests. With the exception of a pair of young drunks in a corner, we were, in fact, the only clientele. The remaining staff, a reserved-but-jovial headwaiter and his young assistant, a handsome, willowy fellow with an unlikely and incongruous paunch (that somehow seemed borrowed or stuck on), were clearly delighted to see us.
Strange frutti
Explaining that theirs was a famous fish restaurant, they offered us a medley of frutti di mare followed by some locally-caught white fish. We accepted, sipped our prosecco, and waited, listening to the soft drumming of raindrops on the roof. Soon, the dishes arrived - about four in all. So, naturally, we assumed that because it was late, the whole lot was being served simultaneously.
Gentle reader, we were very wrong. Just about everything that was left in the kitchen found its festive way to our table. Octopus (about two, nicely dissected), the other piled-high half of the plate crowded by squid and interesting pieces of unidentifiable fish. Delicious. Little chunks of white fish sat in another bowl, strewn with fronds of steamed spinach. Lovely. We ate, and ate. And ate. Christmas comes, etc.
Outside, the rain lashed the picturesque harbour. Inside, the drunks were allowed to smoke in their secluded corner. We finished eating, satisfied and relieved. The plates were removed, with polite smiles and offers of more prosecco.
Suddenly, they arrived with more cutlery. We were, of course, with our distended stomachs, quite shocked. "More?" I squeaked.
"Signor, maybe there has been some misunderstanding. The white fish is arriving soon." I realised that we were possibly in the presence of relatives of The Sopranos, and thought "hey, it's Christmas. Why not?" So we force-fed ourselves the fish, determined that its life not be lost in vain, downed a glass of limoncello, and sped away in a taxi that cost 20 euros for a three-minute drive.
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