Mis Dispiace E il Ristorantes De Italia.

Apologies for my poor Italian as well.

I promise, after this, to write something uplifting and inspirational about the art and architecture of fabulous Italy. And to post amazing pictures. This article will contain my only photos of food to be published, ever. Which is something. Because, you know, this is as much about food as about my experiences with how passionate Italians are about it.

I caused another small scene again this week, in the quaint, small Cafe Boboli. I thought I was ordering gnocchi, and was proud to understand the waiter’s suggestion of sauce. But pride goeth before a gnocchi. Or in this case before pitti. Pitti is handmade spaghetti, which is similar to what the woman next to me ordered.

The waitress (not the waiter I ordered from) bought to my table a lovely spaghetti in bubbly meat sauce. The short, hand rolled spaghetti, however, was not gnocchi, which are small balls of potato (dough, I think). When I said no, the woman next to me said it must be hers. Her husband’s order hadn’t arrived, which was the second sign that something might soon lead to a loud exchange in Italian.

I watched in trepidation as the waitress traversed the length of the ristorante to report to the waiter that my order was wrong. Apparently, It was I who was wrong. I had missed the change in topic from…