Paul Walters

7 tahun yang lalu · 3 menit. waktu membaca · ~10 ·

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The Demise Of A favourite Restaurant Is A Little Like Losing A Favourite Friend .

The Demise Of A favourite Restaurant Is A Little Like Losing A Favourite Friend .

Last week management and I decided that we had neglected visiting our favourite trattoria for quite a while and therefore set out for what we knew would be a satisfying meal. The restaurant in question was a quaint, family owned establishment that seemed to have been in its current location since Roman times.


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Over the years we had got to know the chef, the owner and his wife as well as their children who had, by decree followed their elders into the business.


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This was a trattoria with very little pretentious décor. Childlike murals on the walls depicted scenes from Italy, showing Mt Vesuvius smoking in the background towering over the city of Napoli. Each of the twenty or so tables bedecked with the obligatory red and white chequered tablecloths on which stood the classic empty, wax - coated Chianti bottles each bearing a single candle.


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The welcome was always warm, the service cheerful and the food, though not exactly Michelin rated, was homely and satisfying. In all the years we frequented this establishment we never came away disappointed.

Now, imagine our surprise as we arrived at the venue to see that the Italian flags that had adorned the front doors had been removed and everything inside was, what designers would refer to as 'minimalist'.


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Gone were the tablecloths, replaced with impossibly crisp white linen, the murals painted over in eggshell white, subtle wall lighting, casting cleverly orchestrated shadows down the walls. We are met by the owner, resplendent in ostentatious attire favoured by over-the –top restaurants everywhere, black bow tie offset by an impossibly whiter than white starched shirt and the obligatory black trousers with knife-edged crease. If it were not for the bow tie he could have easily blended into the walls.


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He bows deferentially as we enter and then refers to the book of reservations, perched like a Gutenberg Bible on a lectern resembling something straight out of a Gothic cathedral. He frowns with feigned alarm when our names do not catch his eye, but tells us that luckily, he has just had an extremely rare cancellation.  Touching the side of his nose he tells us in a conspiratorial whisper that we are incredibly fortunate as cancellations simply never occur and in future bookings should be made at least three weeks in advance.


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Once at the table we are handed menus the size of a riot policeman's shield detailing a menu that seems to have been written by an obscure and long- forgotten poet, so flowery are the descriptions of each dish on offer.

The wine when ordered arrives at the table in a decanter that resembles something acquired from a garage  sale from the palace of Versailles. With a theatrical flourish a navy sized tot is poured from the elongated spout into an oversized glass goblet that, if filled to the brim could easily double as a toddlers swimming pool.


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The “sommelier” watches with disinterest, as we taste the offering, as he and we know we have ordered the cheapest bottle from their large and cripplingly expensive selection.

Bottles of Pellegrino are nonchalantly dispensed into large glasses that when sipped smashes against the palette,  as its temperature is slightly less than an arctic glacier. Then the ordeal of having to listen in terrified silence to the 'specials' of the day, delivered in rapid fire waiter speak, leaving us bewildered as to what the man actually said and too frightened to ask him to repeat.


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The meals, when they arrive are a mystery. Mine resemble two small fat birds in a basket while my companion's pasta looks suspiciously like ...well pasta. Our waiter grasps a giant pepper dispenser, not unlike a magnificent phallus and scatters seeds over her food, a glutinous wheel of creamy something or other slightly singed at the edges. When it comes to dispensing my cracked pepper he reaches for a miniature version of the pepper grinder to perform the same task. I presume this is his way of showing his ‘manliness.’

The white noise of conversation from the other feeding humans drowns out our disappointment and we consume our mediocre offerings in silence.


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Forgoing dessert we call for the bill which, when delivered, is presented with a flourish, encased in an embossed leather folder, almost like a book of the bill. The amount listed at the bottom is enough to cause us severe indigestion as it is slightly larger than the annual GDP of a small African country.

We leave, a lot poorer than when we arrived and still mildly peckish but saddened that our little Italian eatery is no longer, where food and camaraderie went hand in hand.

What a crying shame!


Paul v Walters is the best selling author of several novels and when not cocooned in sloth and procrastination in his house in Bali writes for several international travel and vox pop journals around the globe. His latest offering, Asset, will be released in late 2017.


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Komentar

Paul Walters

7 tahun yang lalu #9

#4
Pascal Derrien Seems we are all affected by the same situation. I dont know , I simply cannot wrap my head around a tiny dollop of what I think is food on a plate the size of a tractor tyre and then squirted with a another dollop of "foam' to be called a meal .Then of course paying about $30 for one swallow !!

Paul Walters

7 tahun yang lalu #8

#7
Phil Friedman I shall take that excellent advice on board and use it on the next occasion that that situation arises for I am sure it will !!!

Paul Walters

7 tahun yang lalu #7

#5
Randy Keho Thanks Randy... maybe its just cause we are getting older and grumpier

Phil Friedman

7 tahun yang lalu #6

PS - Amusing piece, Paul. This is why few people will ever share the details of a favorite trattoria. For notoriety only hastens change. Generally for the worse in such matters. Cheers!

Phil Friedman

7 tahun yang lalu #5

Diner's revenge in such circumstances of gross pretension... When the sommelier opens the wine, smell the cork, frown, smell the wine, wrinkle your nose, taste the wine, frown again and proclaim loudly for other patrons to overhear, "This wine is corked!".

Randy Keho

7 tahun yang lalu #4

Change is often hard to swallow (pun intended). The family owned Italian restaurant in my old neighborhood served as our gathering place for years. In fact, my very first job was washing dishes there at the tender age of 16. I'll never forget the pair of kindhearted Italian ladies who took it upon themselves to fatten me up. They were constantly shoving pizza and pasta at me. I don't go there anymore. The latest generation of the family to manage the place has turned it into an overpriced, under-cooked haven for millennials. You can't even stop in for a quick, reasonably priced drink. A pint of Guinness will set you back an hour's wage and that's the cheapest libation they offer. The rest are craft beers with crazy names that taste like they were brewed in somebody's boot.

Pascal Derrien

7 tahun yang lalu #3

I fully get what uou mean we had a trattoria in Paris which my wife and i called the canteen, we also had a locla Irisah pub which was more than just a pub, it wa slike family, trabellers, irish community, dart players local and other bohemians made it their HQ, even people who had left the area would make a point in dropping by, one year due to misnanagment they close for about 7 months, the sense of loss and camaraderie lost was tangible when you bumped into one of the usual suspects......it sthe little things htat count Paul Walters :-)

Gert Scholtz

7 tahun yang lalu #2

Paul Walters We have our little Trattoria down the road complete with red and white check table cloths, a cook who has been there for some thirty years, worn but comfortable seating and delicious Italian food. Whenever you are here Paul – come and relive something of your Alma Eater.

Dean Owen

7 tahun yang lalu #1

Nothing like a good Trattoria! I wonder if my local down the end of King's Road is still around.... Still, we've come along way since you and I were little troublemakers. I recall an era where fine dining composed of half a grapefruit with brown sugar on top and baked in an oven, or half an avocado with some pink sludge and frozen shrimp in the middle.

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