CENA ITALIANA
- Luisa Cartei
- Sep 17, 2015
- 2 min read

I can tell a lot about people just by looking at how they cross the road. It’s green and they have all the right to cross. Yet some people rush, run, almost. They look at your car and say thank you. Or silently apologize for having crossed your path when you may have been late for work.
Others take all the time in the world. They couldn’t care less, even when the green light turns red. They walk like they are pulling an invisible pet turtle on an invisible leash.
They probably think “It’s my turn to be here now and I am going to live it to the full.”
Italians have dinner like they cross the road: slowly.
They can sit for hours, sipping wine, undoing their ties. Changing seats. Ordering cheese after desserts and liquors after cheese. They leave the table in turns to smoke their cigarettes and confess their sins. Their lives unfold between spaghetti bolognese and tiramisu, going from savoury memories to sweet recollections. They argue, they make bets, they make love. All in the time of a cena italiana. And restaurants close when the last man standing pays the bill. The owner greets you with a pat on the shoulder and a special discount for cash payments. For him, it’s a another late night.
For him, there are no fixes times, no rules, no rush.
In Sydney, some restaurants give you a slot. You can fit in the “desperate parents” slot at 6 pm, join the advance-booking freaks’ table at 7.30 pm or be a social outcast, among the disorganised-messy-people at 9 pm. And by 11.30 pm they kick you out anyway. (This actually happened to me at Apollo, Potts Point.)
When I am having a slot dinner, I feel like there is a green light just behind my chair, that could turn red at any second. And I am rushing dinner like I was crossing the street chased by an alligator.
Forks and knives have a limited time to grant you. Glasses, like casanovas, will kiss your lips already thinking about who comes next. Your dessert is only there to give you enough sugar to face the humiliating experience of being unwanted. The kind question "Can I get you something else?" brought to you by your cheerful waitress is a deceiving sentence, whose real meaning is "Can you please leave, we have other people waiting!"
Restaurant doors will swipe you out, slapping your persona away.
Let's face it: you are not really having dinner, it’s more dinner that is having you.
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