Good Pizza - no - the Best Pizza

I wandered into a little restaurant while I was in Roma. It was early and the place was empty, however, every table had a “reserva” sign on it. Yikes, I was out of luck and turned to leave. Suddenly, from somewhere in the back, a woman a little older than me came rushing out. She said something to me in Italian. Double yikes, “Scusi, no Italiano,” came my quick reply. Yes, ugly American alert. But I’m not getting into that discussion again. She smiled, grabbed my hand, guided me to a table, whisked the “reserva” sign off and ushered me to a chair. Okay, then, I guess I’m safe. For a little while at least, because I’m sure that table was meant for someone. A gentleman came out with a menu in his hand and in broken English welcomed me. He then pointed to a sign on the wall, ‘pizza + vino = 8 euro’. To keep this simple, I said I would have the pizza. He then started to tell me which pizzas they had – oh my, too many choices. I cut him off and told him to bring me the best one since he was struggling so mightily to explain things in a language he clearly wasn’t fluent in. A few minutes later, he returned with a small pitcher of red wine and poured a tiny amount into a glass. After swirling it around and sniffing it (I am not kidding- he really did that), he presented it to me with a smile. “You taste. You say good.” He said. I think it was supposed to be a question not a command. Lucky for me, it was very good. I sat and slowly sipped my wine, waiting for my pizza, I was able to see into the kitchen. The cooks were making pasta and hanging it on racks over the stove. They were making pizzas and putting them into the brick oven built into the wall. Either people were ordering ahead or for takeout. The couple who had greeted me were busy fussing over everything – putting pizza boxes out, straitening tablecloths, putting out glasses. As people slowly started to trickle in, they greeted almost everyone by name and with a quick kiss to the cheek. Each table was treated to the same kind of over-attentive service as I was getting. It dawned on me, this wasn’t a restaurant – it was this couples dining room. ‘When you’re here your family’ wasn’t just some fancy ad slogan to them, it was a way of life. Once my pizza was put on my table, both of them stood by my table as I ate my first bite. They were beaming like they were presenting me with their first born child. “No American pizza,” he said. “No, much better,” was my reply. When I got up to leave, he asked how long I was in Roma for. When I told him for a little while longer he said to make sure to come back. No problem, I was definitely going to find my back here. How have we lost this kind of personalized service in America? Or did we never have it? It’s not like this was an overly expensive, upscale restaurant in the heart of Roma – it was a small, neighborhood place in a forgotten corner. This is why I think people should travel more. And travel not to the touristy places everyone goes to but to these tiny little corners where everyday people live and work. Where there are no hotels, few outsiders, no crowds and lots of unique encounters. Find the local markets, the local pub, the local hangouts. Sure the famous stuff is interesting too but why always be fighting a thousand people to see something? Sometime the best stuff is the hardest to find for a reason...