Last night Emily and I ventured to Otto e Tre Quarti, in Torino, for dinner. It was mentioned in Lonely Planet, I think — despite it’s notable absence from the official Lonely Planet app (more on travel apps and smartphones in a future blog post). I was interested in trying it, especially since the somewhat-famous Brek seemed to be a buffet-esque dining experience. Perhaps it’s only famous in my head, and perhaps I didn’t do any research on it. Anyway, 8 3/4.
For most dining experiences I’ve been asking for a table for two on the patio, and the host just gestures toward the general area of the patio. I’ve since stopped asking, and we just seat ourselves. We were doing so last night, when a waiter stopped us. What could he do for us? I was momentarily taken aback with this deviation from the norm, and I mumbled “per due, per favore.” For two, please.
Eye contact was made between the waiter and another guy, all in black, watching from the doorway. No words were needed. They had understood what they would be dealing with all night. Tourists! hiss
Frankly, I can’t blame them. You hear stories of the Ugly American, and they can’t possibly be true. They clearly must be augmented and distorted — as much for good storytelling as for soothing the omnipresent inferiority that Canadians wear like flags on their knapsacks. We haven’t really met any Ugly Americans (a table of “CFOs” beside us at a restaurant one night notwithstanding), though we’ve met lots of Tourists Who Don’t Try, And Happen To Be American.
We sat where we were told. Shortly the waiter brought out menus, and I spotted one detail on one menu from meters away. It was a regular menu except for the inclusion of the word “Inglese,” scotch-taped to the bottom. I smiled a half-smile as he laid it down in front of me. “Inglese. English,” he said, before walking off.
The ignominy! We are people who know words like “ignominy!” The bastards. They were huddled now, forming a game plan to deal with us. I flipped through the wine menu with scorn. We could have Barolo, but it was a little more than I wanted to spend. There was a pretty reasonable Barbaresco, though, and it was a 2007 — hardly a bad year.
About this time, both waiters came back. I was ready. The one asked us the menu was to our liking. I answered, channeling the Italian equivalent of Stephen Fry as best I could. “We would both like to drink-”
Relief washed over their faces. The first waiter threw up his hands in appreciative triumph. We could speak Italian! Or at least enough Italian that they didn’t have to translate between themselves! The man in black started to walk off.
“-a bottle of Barbaresco, please. The 2007 Fontanabianca.”
Our waiter, and new best friend, called over his shoulder to the man in black. “Barbaresco!” Clearly we had represented ourselves well.
I’ve played a lot of this up for storytelling purposes, and I want to emphasize that the staff weren’t rude to us at all. They were always courteous and were just trying to be helpful by presenting an English menu. And it was helpful! We referred to it several times when making our choices. So I don’t want to come across as Doctor Arrogant just because I can order a bottle of wine. I botched several words and phrases throughout the night, and will again today.
I guess the point that I’m trying to make is that it’s good to try. We’re showing up in someone else’s country, wandering about like idiots, and then engaging with them — however momentarily. The least we can do is try to speak their language.