The Expectation

Today I was just, lounging around, thinking about writing, when my roommate Francesca called. She said that she was coming home in 15 minutes and needed my help bringing some couches up the stairs. Then I heard “something, something, Nicola.” The “something something” is something she said in her dialect, and something I am still trying to figure it out.

Approximately 45 minutes later, I hear Nicola coming up the steps. He always makes me laugh because he is theatrical and dramatic. It is like he puts on a show for all of us to enjoy. I think that is a typical thing for Italians in general. This time he was -- I believe -- complaining about the steps. Behind him eventually followed another man, who I later learned was Nicola’s girlfriend’s father.

Finally Francesca arrived in the apartment. She asked me for help, which I was more than happy to give. I told her “I did not expect all of these people.”

“Neither did I,” she said.

Next thing I know, she was frantically searching the kitchen for food to prepare dinner. Both men were shocked she did not have enough food in the house, especially since she was a woman. For the next 15 minutes there was a detailed discourse among the three about what she could make them to eat with the minimal ingredients she had.

They looked in her cupboards and found pasta, but it was mine. Of course I said she could use it. I felt that there was this expectation for her to make everyone food, me included. Luckily she had basil pesto and a couple of different cheeses, along with a vegetable dish made by her father.

She put a pot filled with water on the stove. Nicola peered in to see if there was enough to boil all the pasta. “Francesca this is not enough water for the pasta,” he said. I had to laugh at that comment.

I told them that if my brother ever told me how to make pasta, there would be war. If he expected me to cook for him, because he moved couches and that happened to coincide with dinner, there would be hell to pay; I thought to myself. Wait, my bother has actually helped me move three times, and I never had dinner on the table for him by 2 p.m. Sorry Mike, maybe I should have been more hospitable. I have cooked for my brother, but this is because I wanted to, not because he had to eat.

Dinner was an informal, formal meal. The fold-up table, accompanied by stolen little red plastic fold-up chairs, was set with placemates, and a bottle of water -- Francesca already apologized for not having wine. A plate of cheese was put in the center and a re-used plastic bowl held the tiny cubes of ice. Note to reader: Italy is an anti-ice country.

After we finished the meal, Francesca made caffé which she placed on a tray and carried onto the terrace. Italians always make a presentation. Rich or poor, they use what they have and make the most of it.

I helped her clear the table, while the men drank espresso. Later Francesca was alone washing the dishes. The rest of us relaxed and let the meal digest. Sorry, I could not bring myself to wash dishes while the men sat. So I joined them.

The moral of this day: when it is time to eat, it is time to eat. No excuse. A meal is expected at dinner time. In the States, it is not the end of the world to miss a meal or tell unexpected guests, “Oops. I have no food.” My brother and I would visit my sister, and if she decided to cook for us, great. If not, we would argue for an hour about who was flying and who was buying. But this is Italy.