Josie Palombo
‘If you can, you must eat here every day, the food is magnificent!’ she exclaimed with her deep English accent, boldly waving her arms about like a true Italian to passers by.
— — —
It was a sunny, picture perfect day in Portofino, along the Italian Riviera. Waves of the Mediterranean sea crashed against the wharf, coloured shade cloths hung suspended from the tall orange, red, yellow and cream houses, and boats of all different sizes convened in the bay. The restaurants along the wharf were filled with Italy’s rich and famous. Couples walked up and down the ancient bumpy paved street, licking ice-cold gelato; children kicked a football back and forth; Vespas whizzed up and down the street while elderly men stood at their doorsteps and watched as the world went by. It was the late 1990s and life was good.
Mario was a third generation owner of a restaurant on the Italian Riviera. It had been in his family for generations, from his grandfather, to his father, to him. He was proud of his humble restaurant that served not only people from all over the world but also the locals; it was a livelihood that always provided. Mario had grown up in the restaurant so he knew it like the back of his hand; he knew the characters and the faces that occupied the space day in and day out. Watching his dad befriend the locals, providing them with a shelter and meeting place in the winter when people most needed it. Birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, family reunions took place in the quaint restaurant. Mario saw it all and shared it all. The restaurant was made up of one room and an outside seating area alongside the wharf. The dated brown timber walls, wooden chairs, and cream tiles, kept the restaurant kitschy and unassuming. The restaurant meant a lot to the family and it continued to have the same effect with Mario and his own family.
Mario knew all his customers but one: Elizabeth. Even though she had been dining there for years and he was friendly with everyone, he never bothered her. As a child Mario was never allowed to say hello to her like he would with the other diners. Distantly staring across the water, she would sit, upright, grand but unemotional, and he always found that strange. He’d ask the locals about her, heads would turn and the topic quickly changed. Mario wanted to find out and today was going to be the day.
She was a woman of class and elegance. Her fire-engine-red, wide-brimmed hat, black feline sunglasses and long silk dress made her look like she had stepped out of Vogue Italia. She was a very popular woman around these parts though no one knew much about her. Every day passersby would stop and say hello, discuss the weather, give her a fleeting kiss on each cheek and continue walking along, but Mario always had the feeling she was lonely.
Every day she ate at the restaurant, sitting at the same table and ordering exactly the same meal: an eggplant piadina, minestrone and acqua gassata. Her name was Elizabeth, that’s all he knew about her. He could see loneliness in her eyes. She never really ate much of her lunch, only ever gracefully nibbled at it; maybe she wasn’t hungry, or the summer heat narrowed her appetite.
One warm August day, Mario could see Elizabeth’s water needed a refill and decided to go over and fill it up. He figured it would be a good excuse to go and talk to her.
‘Excuse me, is everything ok here?’
‘Yes dear, everything is fine as usual, thank you.’
Disappointed by her short response, Mario was left wanting more. Was it realistic to think that she would carry a conversation with him? When she turned her head to watch the regatta he realised that was the end of the conversation.
— — —
The water bottle was standing on the table, condensation sliding down its neck as the day warmed. The ice in the glass had melted and the lemon wedge was floating in a pool of water.
I took a seat and waited for my lunch to arrive. I didn’t have to order with the waiters, I had been eating at that restaurant for a long time, and they knew what I wanted.
It was quiet around the wharf that day. Usually buzzing with people, there was a peaceful ambiance that made me feel very much at ease. I looked up and, as though walking on smashed glass, a nervous waiter arrived with lunch.
I was hungry that day and decided to start quickly. The minestrone was steaming, plump carrots, bright red tomato, shiny green olive oil, and cannellini beans all dancing in the bowl together. I decided to leave it for a minute to cool down. I cut into the piadina and, like a volcano’s lava the eggplant and mozzarella spilled out onto the plate. I sighed, admired the sandwich and felt a sense of harmony and happiness with the food in front of me.
— — —
The curiosity had gotten the better of Mario, and after years of wondering, rumors and disregard, his mind and body had decided Elizabeth wasn’t leaving that day until he found out more about her. Mario walked back over; she looked up and without saying a word, gestured at the chair opposite her. He pulled out the wooden seat, sat down and tried not to let her piercing green eyes intimidate.
Mario blurted out, ‘Excuse me, hi, every day you eat here, sit at the same table, order the same meal and never dine with anyone. You seem to have friends that pass by on the street, and many men who desire your attention, yet you still dine alone. For years I’ve watched you and I’m curious to know why.’
She paused, took another sip of her espresso, looked around and began to speak.
‘I came here to Italy with my husband many years ago from London, on what was to be a short six-month business trip, and, I’m still here. I love Italy; she has given me a wonderful life. When we first arrived, William would be out at work in the office making very important deals, he was very successful and I always admired his dedication.’ Elizabeth stopped and reflected, her memory deep in the past, her eyes filling with tears. ‘During the day, I’d be out on my own. William always insisted we meet for lunch. I was a young bride and at that stage cooking wasn’t my forte; come to think of it, my abilities haven’t improved at all,’ she said with a chuckle.
‘We figured we were in Italy and we should eat like Italians. So we settled on a restaurant, this one,’ she said as she looked at me with a smile. ‘And so every day, at the same time, we’d meet here and order a gigantic meal. Most days we ordered the same thing, spaghetti allo scoglio, bistecca and a piadina, those were our favourites. Lots of wine and spumante flowed over the table and everyone was happy. Over time, we became regulars, friends with the owner, your father, and the locals. Everyone always had time for a chat or two. It was a good time in our life.’
‘So why now do you eat alone?’ Mario asked.
‘Twenty years ago, William disappeared. Woke up one morning, left for work and never arrived for lunch. I eat here every day,’ she said, as a tear slid down her cheek, ‘because I hope that that one day he will pull out that wooden chair just like you did, sit down, give me a kiss on the cheek and admire the mozzarella that oozes out of the piadina.’