where fish wear crowns 245To my astonishment, this technique served really well about 80 per-
cent of the time. Italians are a deeply forgiving people. Or else they are
polite, and still laughing. Va bene. With a dictionary and grammar book in
hand, learning a little more actual Italian each day, we traveled in our
rental car from Rome up the winding mountain roads to Steven’s grand-
mother’s hometown in Abruzzi, then north through the farmsteads of
Umbria and Tuscany, and finally by train to Venice, having fascinating
conversations along the way with people who did not speak En glish. I’ve
always depended on the kindness of strangers. In this case they were kind
enough to dumb down their explanations and patiently unscramble a ro-
mance language omelet.
So we didn’t expect En glish translations on the menu. No problem.
Often there was no menu at all, just the meal of the day in a couple of
variations. But restaurants with printed menus generally offered some
translation, especially around cities and tourist destinations. I felt less
abashed about my own wacky patois as I puzzled through entries such as
“Nose Fish,” “Pizza with fungus,” and the even less appetizing “Polyps,
baked or grilled.” It seemed “Porky mushrooms” were in season every-
where, along with the perennial favorite (but biologically challenging)
“bull mozzarella.”
The fun didn’t stop with printed menus: an impressive sculpture in
the Vatican Museum was identified as the “Patron Genius of Childbirth.”
(So that’s who thought it up.) A National Park brochure advised us about
hiking preparedness, closing with this helpful tip: “Be sure you have the
necessary equipments to make funny outings in respects of nature!” One
morning after breakfast we found a polite little sign in our hotel room that
warned: “Due to general works in the village, no water or electricity 8:30
to 11:00. Thank you for your comprehension.”
Comprehension is just what was called for in these situations. Sooner
or later we always figured out the menus, though we remained perma-
nently mystified by a recurring item called “oven- baked rhombus.” We
were tempted to order it just to put the question to rest, but never did.
Too square, I guess.
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