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The Last Supper

September 1, 2007

I thought I would make my last dinner in Italy a memorable one, so I walked around for half an hour looking for the perfect place. I came upon this really nice looking restaurant and decided to give it a go.

First came the bread. A nice big basket of bread for the hungry unsuspecting American. It was so fucking hard, you could actually click them together like a pair of wood blocks. I softened it up with a little oil and vinegar, and after moistening it in my mouth for about a minute, it wasn’t half bad.

Next, I ordered the veal. My dad and I always go out and get veal parmesan if it’s on the menu, so I figured why not try it in Italy? Thanks to the language barrier and my ignorance, I found out I ordered a pan fried filet of leather thrown on a plate, just stewing in its own juices. What’s more? There was no sauce or pasta… Strike 2!

Every bite offered a different texture, sometimes gristly, sometimes hard, so it was like a culinary adventure for 11 Euro.

When I’m done the waiter comes over, takes my unused bread and brings it to the couple that just sat down (totally sanitary) Finally, I get the bill. I had the exact change out and ready, and the woman goes: “Cuesta 13 Euros.” I used my broken Italian/Spanish/English to ask what the extra money was for. She points to some random spot on the menu written only in Italian and starts yelling at me as if I understand a word she’s saying. (Only later did I realize she meant the sanitary bread basket cost 2 more Euro)

I make the swap and give the woman the extra money and politely add, “You are a fucking swindler, and your veal sucks ass.” (I figured she could translate later)

Not the meal I dreamt of, but I can definitely say I’ll remember it.

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