Eating out in Rome

         The restaurant was right by the single-lane cobbled street. Cars struggled to pass the milling tourists but Rome was no place to drive. The late October sunshine was still warm, with temperatures in the mid-twenties centigrade, and the packed restaurant had an awning, covering the place in cooler shadows. The waiters doubled as salesmen for the establishment, connecting to every passerby with offers of drinks and fine cuisine. We were a sure bet since we had already chosen this place and the smiling waiter showed us to our seats.

         My son, daughter, and I sat down grateful for the wooden bench after hours on our feet. Wikipedia told us the seven hills of Rome were not that tall or steep, the experience of them told us otherwise. We'd come to Rome to touch the ruins and learn something about the city's memory of the caesars and papacy. Our heads and hearts were full of brutal stories and beautiful art, Roman soldiers and gifted painters, sculptors, and pious saints, their heads and eyes lifted to the heavens. It was all so awesome and overwhelming but now we were hungry and tired and needed food.

         We chose a mix of pizza, lasagna, and spaghetti between us and waited with sprites and sparkling water for the food to arrive. The place was alive with conversation, tourists from Europe and North America and not a few Chinese crowded every table and the place buzzed with life and stories.

         The waiters were less friendly now that we were captive to the process. The food came and clunked onto the table. The waiter looked rushed and avoided eye contact and questions, moving back inside the restaurant. We tucked into the food. The pizza was paler than with shop colors, freshly made in the kitchens within, and the lasagna was creamier than we were used to. We murmured appreciation as we tasted it. The food disappeared quickly.

         It was then that we started to see things, strange things like the veil between past and present had been torn away. Roman soldiers marched in the street followed by a flock of fat friars, heads bowed in reverential contemplation. Then flamboyant dandies with swords at their belts and artists and poets in tow. An Italian aristocrat in a horsedrawn gilded carriage passed by the restaurant. I saw a beautiful woman in a ball gown fanning herself within. She glanced at me and then quickly looked away as if I were a peasant unworthy of her attention.

         My son and daughter looked at me curiously.

         "Did you see that?" they asked.

         "Yes, what was in the food we just ate? It is like we are watching history itself march past us."

         The ground began to shake and we held onto the table. I could see the fear in my daughter's face.

         "Daddy, I'm scared, make it stop."

         "Hold on sweety, this will pass," I said, in part to convince myself, as much as to comfort her. My knuckles went white as I gripped the table between us.

         The kaleidoscope of imagery all around merely accelerated. The sky itself was painted with the glorious colors of St Peter's Basilica and then the Sistine Chapel. Sculptures emerged from stone walls all around and then shook themselves free of the stone and moved as if alive. A great finger from the sky pointed downward to be met by that of a half-naked man, a mere peasant on the streets. They touched and lightning bolts hurt our eyes, the lights dancing across the buildings. Roman gladiators fought on the battlements of the castle nearby. Roman soldiers with harsh voices and whips led gangs of slaves chained together, heads bowed and spirits broken through the streets. The sculpture of Peter that we had seen in St Johns the Lateran came alive and preached in the streets beside us. He was led away and we saw a vision of a man crucified upside down. The Christians here seemed undeterred and tried to convert their neighbors with stories of a loving savior, some were led away as slaves or food for lions in the Colosseum.

         We felt like we were witnesses to St John's apocalyptic vision of the four horsemen but set on an endless cycle of repeat - conquest, continual warfare and strife, famine, and death. We sat shaking, while fierce barbarians with white faces and blue eyes ripped people from the surrounding houses, killing them without mercy, or just stealing their things, loading them into animal skin bags. People dropped dead of plague, rats scurried across their corpses. Houses were walled up, we heard the moans of the sick people still alive within. Famine followed with emaciated citizens dropping dead before our eyes or giving their last precious scraps of stale hard bread to moaning children. Then there were republican revolutionaries marching past with rifles strapped across their backs. We saw Mussolini riding a white horse while crowds cheered the victories in Ethiopia and the new Roman Empire. Then we saw jackbooted, grey-helmeted Nazis with cruel faces. Planes appeared in the sky raining down bombs on a distant part of the city, the explosions shook the ground. "The British are coming, they are bombing my beautiful churches," said a scared pope running down the street like a madman. Then tanks in the street, quickly fading into the autumn sunshine.

         We woke as if from a dream at the sound of a car horn. Beside us, a red Ferrari was trying to park in a space too small for the car. Waiters from this restaurant and the next yelled at the driver in that exuberant, passionate Italian style that Northern Europeans either love or loathe.

         My daughter was crying, and my son looked relieved. The ground stopped shaking and the walls solidified into the drab and dirty cream and yellow colors of modern Rome. We looked around and the world seemed up to date. Our plates were licked clean before us and our glasses were empty now.

         "It's over," I said. I wrote on my hand with my finger as a sign to the waiter that I wanted to pay the bill. He nodded and a minute later we were on our way back to the hotel.

         If ever you go to Rome and want the full experience then I would recommend a small street-side restaurant just over the Tiber River on the opposite side to the Castel des Angelos. Just remember to stay in your seats and hold on to the table.


Notes ▼

SURVEY

Journey Through Genres: Official Contest  (E) Write a short story in the given genre to win big prizes! #1803133 by Writing.Com Support

PROMPT: Fantasy genre with a focus on Food. (My story was inspired by a recent trip to the eternal city.)
W/C: 1086