Dinner in a Convent, Trieste Day 1

—  Larry?  —  Uso un tono professionale.

—  Non diremlo, —  l’anticipo lui.  —  Quando mi chiami “Larry” con quel tono inamidato da neurologa

After two weeks in Italy, self is so genius she speaks Italian fluently.


The above quote is from a book she pulled at random from the shelf in her little apartamento.  The book is from Capitolo XII of Henry Denker’s Un Caso Di Conscienza (in all probability, with a title like that, a mystery).

She had dinner (and a glass of red) at a place called Antico Convento, in a narrow alley off the main street.  The owner of a pasticerria (She had two chocolate eclairs in lieu of lunch —  gaaah, she will be a regular Porky Pig if this keeps up) gave her three restaurant recommendations, but upon seeing the name Antico Convento, self was absolutely tickled and determined that she would have dinner there.

She ordered a Primi Piatti (first course) of soup.  The waiter said it was a kind of specialty of the region, called yota.  Then, she ordered a main course of pork with porcini.  Even though the pasticerria owner told her that seafood was the thing to eat in Trieste, the restaurant was so unadorned that it reminded her of Louie’s in Bacolod.  So, since Filipino food is mostly about pork, she decided to try the Trieste pork.  Of course, it arrived second, after a HUGE —  and self does mean HUGE —  bowl of bean soup with sauerkraut (The waiter thoughtfully provided a bottle of olive oil to sprinkle over the soup) and pieces of ham.  Oh Mama Mia, self should have restrained herself, she should have known the second course would be unmanageable after the soup, but no.  Self plowed through the soup, leaving only two tablespoons at the bottom of her bowl, and then — TA RA! —  out came the second course, steaming, piled pork and porcini accompanied by a kind of side dish of sauteed potatoes (Sauteed in bacon, but not served with bacon, the waiter proudly informed self) and it was soooo delicious!  Self could hardly see straight after that.  She stumbled home, inwardly cursing at how tight her jeans were.  At the door to her building, she encountered two young people crouched right before the entrance.  Self’s first thought was:  Finally!  What The Man always warned self to expect:  A Proper Mugging!

But no, one of the two young people was a slender young woman, and she smiled at self and said Perdon or Scusi or something like that, and moved about two inches to one side, just enough for self to get her hand on the entrance knob, and give it a good (and somewhat hasty) push, and self nearly fell over a pristine, white baby carriage that looked as decked out as a gondola, and there was a baby inside it, sleeping, and self put two and two together and realized that the baby’s parents were right outside the building, right there pressed against the door, enjoying a few illicit hours of peace in the Trieste night.

Self, you stupid twit, if you’d woken up that peacefully sleeping infant, you’d never have gotten over the shame.

Grazie e Arrivederci, dear ones.

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