On how a Friday night meal becomes a clash between two cultures.
Friday. I wake up feeling less than clever due to what should have been a quiet night out with gig included. The decisive factor that determined a change in this plan was I got a phone call in the morning which announced I would be employed again from Monday, putting two months of struggles (and several more on the verge of schizophrenia) to an end. My flatmate – who I believe secretly enjoys seeing me turning into a raging alcoholic – did the rest. So here I was, sitting on my sofa, slightly hangover and with a firm resolution to do absolutely nothing all day to make up for two months of job interviews and soul-destroying jobhunting 10am-11pm. Aforementioned flatmate was at home as well, trying to write her PhD thesis hidden behind a Macbook, a pile of photocopies and a chemistry book the size of the Lindisfarne Gospels. I, from my privileged spot on the sofa, was looking at her with pity in my eyes thinking ‘thank God academia doesn’t own my soul anymore’.
Suddenly, the question. ‘What are the plans for tonight?’. Ruling out the option of cooking something, we decided to see which of the restaurants around home would appeal us the most. Burger at The Flask? No. Indian in Crouch End? No. Pizza? BORING, no. Thai in Stroud Green? Turkish in Angel? No. Remembering a conversation with M. the night before, I said I would love to go to Dim T. My flatmate beamed and screamed she remembered there was one in Highgate. Moments of anticipation and turmoil while the page of the website loads and THERE IT IS, Highgate. Evening sorted. ‘Can you call them to book?’ ‘Why you never call?’ ‘I don’t like talking’ ‘Oh really? It didn’t seem so last night…’ ‘Umpf’. Booked. At 9, we’re prancing up Highgate Hill to reach our beloved destination.
Now, eating out (or just eating in general) is a sacred ritual for Italians, as you might know. It is the equivalent to drinking for the British. It is close to unconceivable to go out for a meal and have less than 3 courses, consumed while repeatedly appreciating the quality of the food. It is simply not socially acceptable to go out for a meal and, at the end, feel like you could easily put something else in your stomach. NO. You have to eat until you feel your stomach is about to get out of your body and slap you. Neither me or my flatmate stick to this ritual every day, of course, but on weekends we believe it is our duty as Italian citizens abroad to maintain habits and traditions of our motherland.
We arrive to Dim T and it’s – of course – much smaller than the one in London Bridge. We sit down and while we’re looking at the menu, choosing approximately 20 dim sum each while enthusiastically reading the ingredients and gesticulating, a lovely English couple sits at the table next to us. And here, ladies and gentlemen, begins a meal that we shall rename The Clash of the Cultures. In a triumph of squeaks of delight, our pile of dim sum arrive, soon followed by our main course (noodles). While we are jumping on our food like vultures on their preys, the couple’s meal arrives. It is with a mix of shock and self-consciousness that we notice they have one dim sum to share (there are 3 in each box) and one main to share. With a look of almost sheer horror my flatmate leans toward me and asks me if they are sharing one dim sum. I reply yes, so it would seem. We look at the small box on their table. We look at what resembles the Pisa Tower on our table. Our minds simply cannot comprehend. I also look at the gracefulness both our table neighbours show towards the food, then I look at my flatmate eating noodles displaying chopstick skills I’ll never have, taking onions out of the bowl with a fork and avidly drinking her lychee tea. Mine is a mix of concern and admiration. Despite our sizes, she is unquestionably the champion who could eat amounts of food you mortals wouldn’t even bear the sight of. Looking at the girl at the table next to us, she launches herself in a heated debate on whether we tend to eat less when we go on a date or not. I reply yes, because I’m normally too nervous to or (ah, the romanticism!) too lost in the other person, and she says she used to be intimidated and usually tried to control herself, but doesn’t anymore. I point out that it would be simply impossible considering her current boyfriend appetite, which shocked even a woman used to regularly go out for dinner with 5 greedy Italian men like me. With the background of this couple eating less than each of us had eaten, we finish our meal and express full satisfaction by rubbing our tummies and telling the waiter (Italian) it was all wonderful. He is a small Northern Italian, who was evidently equally shocked to see our Southern Italian selves showing so much appreciation towards food. We didn’t want a dessert, but somehow we felt the meal would have been incomplete without. So we decided to share a Bento Box, which is – believe me – sex in a box.
With something like that at hand, no man could ever equate the level of physical, almost sexual satisfaction a woman can reach – and women, if you disagree you know you’re lying. That was (quite rightfully) the climax. While we were in the middle of the intercourse eating the brownie, the couple left. Indignated, my flatmate looked at them, then at me and said ‘what sort of meal is this!’. You see, she’s much more Italian than me, and it amuses me how, after 4 years in this country, she doesn’t seem to get used to the fact British don’t worship food as much as we do. They consume their meals quietly, with moderation, and submissively – pretty much like anything else they do, in fact. Once finished the orgasmic brownie, we grin with satisfaction. And here comes the gem: when the waiter comes to get my card and ask how it was, my flatmate shows the best of her very hidden femininity saying (to a Northern Italian guy, may I remind you this) with a Roman accent ‘We ate everything you had in the restaurant, HAHA!’ (literally: ‘Ci siamo magnate tutto quello che c’era ner ristorante, HAHA’). I freeze for a second and, looking at the guy’s face, I want the ground to open up and swallow me.
Rolling like balls, we start walking down the hill to Hornsey Lane, and we come up with a very good idea. In London you find plenty of ads for cabs taking you home if you’re too drunk. In Italy, they should offer another type of service, more suitable for the country’s priority: a crane that can comfortably take you home, seated or on a litter, after you had a meal out. Once again, a fine example of where two countries’ different priorities lie.
