Scenes from an Italian Restaurant

On the recommendation of a friend, I visit Little Italy, which soon becomes one of my favorite haunts in the city. I walk the streets in my overcoat and sunglasses, humming Frank Sinatra ballads and feeling like a member of the Sopranos.

Due to the virus scare, the streets are sparse and restauranteurs have taken to prowling the sidewalk, menu in hand, hoping to ambush unsuspecting tourists with the lunch special. 

Il Cortile is one such establishment, an ivy-clad, brick cafe right out of the pages of Under the Tuscan Sun. The proprietor catches me in a weak moment and recites an impressive litany of Italian delicacies fit for a Pope. After the lengthy sales pitch, I say something clever like, “I’ll bear that in mind,” and continue on my way.

At the next corner, a redhead with a pixie cut and radiant smile offers coffee or gelato, which proves to be a more effective marketing strategy. I sit outside, in order to be closer to the welcoming committee and drink a cup of black coffee I don’t particularly need. At one point, Nicole disappears and returns with a pot of coffee, asking if I need a refill, and since she’s already gone to the trouble of fetching the carafe, I don't refuse. In this manner, I drink three pots of coffee before tipping the equivalent of a small Italian villa and waddling home.

On a later visit to Little Italy, I return to Il Cortile for the chicken parmigiana lunch special which I have in the garden room. It is a divine affair of fresh melted cheese and green herby things, with twinkle lights hanging from the trees and Italian music filling the air. Around me, kisses are shared over bottles of wine and diabolical pacts made in hushed tones with homemade breadsticks to seal the deed. 

And in that moment, I swear we were all Italian. 

J.

March 15, 2020