Sergio's imminent breakdown

As strong as evidence may argue, Mother and I do not dine out all the time. However, last night we were forced to find a restaurant for dinner. Long story but we're currently staying in a museum... with a questionable supply of cooking facilities. Oh yes, we're living in a museum now. We had to vacate our previous place and now we're here; in a historical old museum thing in the middle of The Old Town with no heating or parking or internet or daylight or rugs but we do have Michelangelo alfresco paintings all over the walls so there's that.

Anywho, last night Mother and I walked down La Rambla (not the one in central Barcelona but Spain has yet to create more words and so we're stuck with a multitude of 'Juan's and 'Maria's and 'Rambla's) to find a non-Spanish place to eat. Italian would surely be the safest choice, right? WRONG. Being persuaded by the beautiful exterior of fairy lights and Italian iron work, Mother confidently waltzed in and greeted the shy 19-year-old boy showing us to a table. As usual, Mother browsed every single other available table to check that she would be sitting at the best. Luckily for the young boy, he had chosen wisely and Mother was satisfied.

After ordering wine, the young boy - we'll call him Sergio for the purpose of easy-reading - is summoned over to our table by a cross Mother, who proceeds to lecture him about wine etiquette before I interrupt and ask him, in Spanish, if he even understands English. He does not.  I am now roped into more translation duties.

"This wine is cold! Wrong *shakes head* red wine is served warm not cold. This is not right, it must be changed. Por favor."

"Oh.... well we don't have any more bottles that are warmer...."

"I see. Well, could you please warm up my glass then?"

Sergio looks perplexed.

Mother rubs his biceps; "Darling, put some hot water in the glass and then when it is warm you can put wine in it, see?" *Frightening smile*

Sergio half smiles and looks at me for assurance, of which I give.

A few moments later Sergio returns with the wine and Mother is extraordinarily grateful.

The menu looks slightly odd. Gnocci! Excellent, that's Italian. Ah, nope. It's ... fried? Yes, of course it is! If you are unaware, Spain like to fry everything in batter. Chicken? Yes. Fish? Yes. Seafood? Yes. Bread? Yes. Noodles? Yes. Tomato? Yes. Ham? Yes. Pasta? Apparently so.

So, we order the fried gnocci with guacamole to share as a starter. Slight mistake. A very odd combination that we won't be having again. Not to worry, we choose foie pasta with onions and cognac. Cool, right? Wrong again. I take a bite and mentally spit it out but remain straight faced. Mother takes a bite and immediately screws up her face, whips her head around to attract (frighten) Sergio and puts her finger in the air. A streak of worry ripples through Sergio and he hurries over to our table;

"Si?"

"What is this? This is meat. We don't eat meat, tell him what I'm saying, darling. Tell him we don't eat this. It's too strong... it's meat...."

I translate. This is mortifying.

"It's foie... duck, no? It's... well it's foie - which is duck.... which is ... meat, madam"

"No but tell him it's too strong, YUCK!"

I tell him. Mother rubs Sergio's biceps again.

Mother attempts to communicate directly;

"No es your fault-a. It's the kitchen problema. Kitchen  - YUCK. Kitchen - YUCK!"

Sergio looks very worried. I am trying to signal to him, telepathically, to please not heave with emotional discomfort as we will leave soon and he can breathe again.

We ask if we can choose something else and he obliges, of course.

Mother suggests the calzone and Sergio looks confused.

"But... it has ham, look!" He points to the 'jamon york' listed in the ingredients. "It's meat"

"Yes, no, yes, that's fine. We try, we try!" Mother laughs loudly and touches his arm for the seventh time.

Sergio rushes off and Mother calls him straight back.

"Wine! More wine por favor". She then wraps her hands around her empty glass and makes a face to suggest that she is an eskimo; huddling her body up and making a 'blow' pout.

I translate this to him as; "she wants it warm again please".

He scuttles off and returns with the wine a few minutes later and Mother winks at him in approval.

Sergio brings the calzone a while later and tells us he will bring us plates and cutlery right away so we can share. I am able to see what he's doing from my position at the table and I witness him fixing his hair in the reflection of the lamps at the bar. He then chats to his male colleague (I sense some tension between them). His colleague wanders off and leaves Sergio strolling around the mirrored objects until his eyes slowly fall upon Mother and I sitting back in our chairs; calzone untouched. It hits him like a bullet and his Nike trainers skid to a halt as he rapidly spins around and runs back to the kitchen, quickly emerging with plates and cutlery.  Poor Sergio wanted to put down the plates and rush back but Mother caught him (physically - by the bicep - again) and indicated 'more wine please *laugh laugh*'.

The calzone is, sadly, a total mess. Mother is never capable of hiding her true feelings and therefore I found myself suddenly putting my hands together and expressively praying to Mother to "please dear Lord do not complain again just please it's not that bad please don't say anything oh GOD".

I just cannot face Sergio's potential forthcoming panic attack.

Mother refrains and we reluctantly finish the calzone - swearing never to return to this particular pizzeria. I have taken it as my responsibility to decide which restaurants I or we can return to and I feel confident in my choices. Interestingly, they are all Japanese. Well, what do you expect?

xoxo