Waiter to the Rich and Shameless: Confessions of a Five-Star Beverly Hills Server (28 page)

I
walked on down the very narrow, hallway-sized Via Fieschi, feeling daggers from
her eyes landing in my back, which was, it turned out, the only street that
lead through this small town. Dressed like a rock star and getting WTF looks
from mostly everyone, I walked past two restaurants and a very small
grocery/convenience store.  Then I came to a miniature piazza with some outdoor
tables, shaded by an awning that read Caffé Matteo.  Bingo! I’m thinking
this
must be the place, right
?  I mean, how many Bar or Caffé Matteos could
there be in this town?  So, genius that I am, I walked in and was greeted by a
fellow named Riccardo.  The place was empty; it was siesta time, and a Sunday
too, which explained the quietude. In broken tourist Italian, I tell Riccardo
my name and the reason I’m there, expecting him to instantly say: “
Si Paolo,
va bene, aspettiamo arrivarti!
” (“Yes, we’ve been expecting you!”) and then
start calling the whole family in to say hello, who would all be awed by the well-dressed
American. But such was not the case.  Of course not. Things had been going way
too smoothly.

He
had never heard of the apartment I was supposed to stay in and I was really
starting to get worried. Riccardo poured me a small glass of Amaro (an herbal
digestive liqueur) and brought me an espresso.  In Italy, it is a widely held
belief that either alcohol or espresso can fix anything, from being robbed to
cancer. He told me there were other places to stay in town, and I was guessing
he owned one of them. We sat there trying to figure out what may have happened
to create this dilemma.  I showed him the text on my phone but he still acted
clueless.  I was trying to figure out how I would explain all this to my now
most likely furious future ex-wife.  That is, if she hadn’t already taken a cab
back to Rome, hired a Mafia hit man to kill me, or been kidnapped.

Just
as I was about to get up and leave, in walked his wife, Manuela, who asked me
something in Italian.  I stumbled along trying to explain that we were supposed
to pick up keys at their bar for Appartamento Alto which we would be renting
for one week. She looked at me and said, “Wait a minuto,” then walked over to
the register and made a phone call. Five minutes later, one of the old crones
from the main square tottered in. Manuela introduced her as Signorina Marilena
Galletti. Mrs. Galletti, who didn’t speak a word of English, was in her sixties
and was wearing a white and blue-checkered sleeveless dress with some incarnation
of an apron wrapped around her waist.  She had the build of a farmer; you could
tell she was familiar with hard labor by the outlines of her body. She looked
strong as an ox with a brick of an upper body and legs like a rugby player.  Nothing
Hugh Hefner would be interested in for a centerfold.

Apparently,
our mystery had been solved, but another mystery took its place: Why had the
woman not recognized us in the square as her renters? No other American
tourists had gotten off the bus looking lost in the main square right in front
of her. She ushered me to follow her, using now familiar Italian hand gestures,
which I did, as I thanked Manuela and Riccardo, my two new best friends. We
proceeded in the direction of where my poor wife had been waiting for forty
minutes with our luggage. Do I need to tell you that she did not look happy? If
she had rolled her eyes at me any harder, they would have disappeared into the
back of her lovely head. I helped her up and kissed her cheek, hoping she had
not called a divorce lawyer.

We
pushed and pulled our heavy bags up the elongated cobblestone steps and steep
walkways wondering where in the hell this apartment was. It was obvious where
Mrs. Galletti had gotten her sturdy build.  Once we got to the building, we
discovered that the apartment was on the third floor (another minor detail left
out of the brochure) and Mrs. Galletti instinctively grabbed one of the heavy
bags and walked up the very narrow steep spiraling staircase, carrying it like
it was an empty briefcase. We followed slowly behind her with the rest of the
bags, grunting and groaning like the lazy-ass Americans I’m sure by now she
thought we were.

We
were still very skeptical but once she opened the door we couldn’t believe our
eyes.  There were two bedrooms and a full bathroom downstairs, and the master
had French doors (or were they Italian doors?) leading out to a small balcony
with a tremendous, stupendous, spectacular view over the entire town and the
ocean below.  Another large window looked out over the sea and to the right of
our picturesque view rose a green, terraced and irrigated hillside, an example
of the ancient agricultural techniques utilized by the local farmers.  It was
all so beautiful that I almost forgot that Signora Galletti was standing behind
me waiting for payment.  I gave her the balance in cash to make up six hundred
Euros for the week, and she told us that she’d be by the next day with more
towels. She rewarded us with a gap-toothed smile, backed away, and left us
alone. I could tell by the look on my bride’s face that I was now redeemed.
Hope she remembered to cancel the hit man and fire the lawyer.

Once
Mrs. Galletti closed the door and we heard her clomping down the stairs, my
wife and I pounced on the queen size bed and hugged, we were so happy our
hearts just welled over at the spectacular setting we were to live in for the
next week.  Of course, I wanted my reward for a job well done immediately and
Juliana was more than happy to deliver. After reveling in the afterglow, I
realized we hadn’t even been upstairs yet.  I went up to inspect the kitchen
and living room, and yelled out in excitement, “Come upstairs quick! You won’t
believe your eyes!” 

The
kitchen was nothing special – very tiny by American standards – and the living
room was simple with a basic dining table and a window looking onto the ocean,
but what blew us away was the rooftop patio. Again, French doors opened up to
an outdoor space with a painted wooden table and chairs and, of course, a
wrought iron railing to protect toddlers, drunks, and the odd clumsy American
tourist.  There was an outdoor shower with a proper drain so you could cool off
on hot days I supposed.  The view was completely unobstructed as we stood in
complete awe and amazement.  To the left of us on another hillside was the charming
town church where the mourning doves were cooing gently.  Just beyond that and
below us was the small town square where a grocer’s truck had pulled up and was
selling meats, cheese, and other products hard to come by way up in Corniglia. A
few laughing children chased each other around the café chairs set out for
hungry passersby, while old men nodded on a bench, their afternoon nap
interrupting what I imagined to be their daily visit. Across the piazza we
could see the base of the town’s narrow main street winding up to the top of
the hillside beyond, dotted with ancient houses piled atop one another like
pastel jewels.  The captivating view spanned the entire town and as I looked
more closely, I could see a meandering pathway that lead down to the beautiful
Mediterranean Sea.

A
few people were sunbathing, stretched out on huge rocks, and kids were jumping
into the water from the edge of the stone pier. It felt like I could possibly
see all way the way to Nice in the south of France.  As I finally turned slightly
to my right, I could also see some of the hiking trails that lead to the other
neighboring towns and with a hard right, I saw the impeccably maintained
hillside farming terraces. It was almost too much to take in and since I’d
never been exposed to anything like this before I felt overwhelmed as I stood
at the top of one of the highest residential points in this cliffside town.  Juliana
had her arm around my waist and was resting her head on my shoulder. Neither of
us spoke as we tried to capture the view and the moment in our internal Kodak
albums. We wanted to remember it always.

We
admired what the local people had done with their tiny cliffside town that was
set in stone thousands of years ago, and our senses filled with gratitude at
the simplicity and beauty of this brilliant use of terrain. The keepers of the
land had done an amazing job of leveraging what they had.  No wonder the
apartment was called “Appartamento Alto,” as it occupied the highest point in
this tiny town.

Realizing
that my Diesel shirt and tattooed blazer were a bit of overkill for this humble
town, I dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, a simple polo shirt, and some thong sandals
as we headed down to explore the town a little more closely and buy some basic
groceries.  I also figured the change of clothes might throw off the lone Mafia
gunman who might be lurking nearby with his sights set on me. Juliana had put
on a green flowery sundress and sandals and looked spectacular, but then she
always does. In fact, I’m not sure why I even worried about what I wore,
because when we’re together all eyes are on her.

We
dined every night within the stone walls of Osteria a Cantina de Mananan, a
highly-rated eatery attracting people from all over the world to this tiny
hamlet.  Their front door was plastered with stickers and ratings from numerous
international organizations. Once we finally got in for dinner, we realized
quickly that we would need to make a dinner reservation for every night at eight
or we didn’t stand a chance of getting in.  The owners, Livio and Augostino,
and Augostino’s wife Marianne in the kitchen, became not only our chefs and
servers but quickly befriended us and guided us in their own way through our
every meal. 

Our
dinners consisted of only the freshest local sea fare – caught, cooked, and
served the same day – and vegetables from Augostino’s own terraced gardens. The
wines we chose were recommended by Livio based on which dishes we ordered.  He
usually gave us a Vermentino from La Spezia (a larger, neighboring town near
the Cinque Terre) or sometimes we craved some red wine so we would order a
Rossese
di Dolceacqua,
a light
and refreshing Pinot Noir-like wine from the north of Liguria. Some of the
native dishes we enjoyed while dining with our new friends were:  an antipasto
of smoked tuna carpaccio with anchovies prepared in three different ways
(vinegar & lemon, olive oil & garlic, and fried); a white bean salad
with squid and pearl onion; grilled baby artichokes with olive oil and parsley
garnish; local salt cod, pan-roasted and served in a light broth with black and
green olives, capers, and fresh tomato.  Whole grilled Branzino (local
Mediterranean sea bass), which Livio filleted for me at the table, was superb. 
Linguine with their own version of pesto sauce, which is legendary all over the
Cinque Terre, was also delicious.  We ate cozze marinara (mussels in tomato
sauce), and of course their spaghetti frutti di mare (fruits of the sea) with
gamberoni (jumbo shrimp) could not be skipped.

Once
we had communicated that we were there on our honeymoon, Augostino told us the
story of how he had proposed to Marianne under the moonlight on the beautiful
shoreline walkway that leads to Manarola, the closest southern town.  Livio
piped in saying that we had to take that romantic walk and a few minutes later
presented us with a bottle of Pergole Basse, a local red wine, for us to take
along, with the words scribbled across it: Alla Salute, Augostino, Livio, Mari,
Grazie.  They asked us if we needed an opener and then Livio broke out some
local Grappa and shared it with us along with an espresso and some biscotti
that Marianne had made that morning. I was beginning to worry that we’d have to
buy a whole new wardrobe soon, if we kept eating like this.  

I
appreciated the authentic food and joy of serving that made this place so
special and memorable.  These people truly enjoyed growing, preparing, and
serving these wonderful foods; they wanted to see joy on their guests’ faces,
and like a doting grandparent, they kept piling our plates and every groan or
“oooh” and “aaah” enticed them to serve more. They take such simple foods as
pasta or olives and elevate them to exquisite heights through love and caring.
Instead of covering something with sauce, for example, they let the food speak
for itself, let the natural taste shine, enhanced with seasonings and flavors
just enough to achieve sublime perfection.

I
couldn’t help comparing it to the cold and rehearsed manner of service at the
Cricket Room, and it made me shudder.  There was no natural human interaction
with guests, such as I had experienced throughout our Italian adventure. I
realized then that I hated corporate restaurant chains.  In fact, I hated the
whole idea of corporate anything – it just seems like an excuse to buy out the
competition and corner a market and then use cheaper products to maximize
profits.  It’s an ugly disease that we should resist at all costs.  I was
becoming some modern new incarnation of The Forgotten Man; someone who values
individuality and uniqueness over mass production and efficiency. This
mom-and-pop shop with great, unforced personal service and local food works! In
Italy and throughout Europe they truly manage to achieve this personal feel, even
in the largest of cities like Paris and Rome.  Remember to look for it – it’s
there.

We
also became friendly with Manuela and Riccardo as we ventured into their Bar
Matteo several times after dinner to enjoy their homemade gelato and cookies. 
Manuela told us they would be visiting Los Angeles soon, so I gave her my home
phone number in the hope of showing them a good time in our big city.

One
day I ventured down to the stone pier by myself, leaving the old ball and chain
up there perched on top of the hill in that sweet apartment. Juliana wasn’t
feeling well; she was catching a cold and wanted to take a nap. I walked down
the winding dirt path to the water where I had been taking my Mediterranean
swim on an almost daily basis. The water from the pier is lively but has no California-style
breaking waves.  The churning water creates a confusing illusion:  the water is
so clear that when you look down it’s very hard to judge where to jump in, as
it actually looks so shallow you fear you’ll hit your head on one of the huge
submerged stones. And yet it’s quite deep.