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Practice writing and read good books.>
Revising Your Text
November 10, 2009
I thought you might like to read my revised scene at the restaurant. I "filled in the cracks", so to speak. What do you think?
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Rick took a wobbly seat at a small green plastic table outside the front of the Nuovo Mondo. Parked cars of the Italian variety, meaning small and covered with dings and long scrapes from too many attempts at parking on crowded streets, were wedged together and pressed up against the line of cement pots planted with short green hedges that surrounded the Nuovo Mondo’s outside seating area. Designed to deaden the sound of car engines and keep the exhaust of passing vehicles from spoiling the food, the hedges formed an organic wall and kept at bay the claustrophobic feeling of the too many closely parked vehicles. The long branches of the hedges sometimes caught the hair of the patron sitting next to the green, and it might be a contest between flora and carbon to see who got the chair.
Positioning himself so he faced the restaurant, Rick watched the pizza maker spin the dough. The Nuovo Mondo pizza maker was a legend. A big man dressed in a white t-shirt and paper hat that barely fit his head, and covered in sweat from the heat of the wood-fired oven, his job was one of constant attention to the flow of the evening’s orders. There was no room for error, and a good pizza man was worth his weight in gold.
People strolled up and down the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Italians didn’t walk, they strolled. Constant yacking, paying no attention to who is behind them or how much of the sidewalk they occupied, there was no corollary in Italian society to the American who wanted to cover ground quickly. In Italy, even the act of walking was to be savored and enjoyed. For some it was an art. Bella figura, Italians called it: looking good while indulging in even the smallest pleasures of life. Rick found himself enjoying the chaos and din of a warm night in authentic Italy. He would likely be the only tourist on the Amerigo Vespucci in Testaccio. A few non-Italian locals might be there, too, but this was a genuine, local tratoria.
The table was adorned with a single cheap, white paper placemat. On top was a plate piled high with flimsy napkins and well-used silverware. A single printed piece of paper enclosed in a plastic sleeve served as a menu. Rick could almost recite its contents, having eaten there numerous times before.
Wearing the uniform of the wait-staff — white shirt and black pants — a waiter came running up to Rick’s table with pad and pencil. Rick had nicknamed this longtime employee of the Nuovo Mondo “the professor” because of his glasses, disheveled hair, and sometimes absentminded service.
“Vino rosso della casa, acqua con gas, baccalà, bruschetta con pomodoro, e una pizza con salsiccia e funghi” was Rick’s order of the night. A sprint back into the restaurant brought a bottle of bubbly water, red wine and a corkscrew. Two small beakers were tossed onto the table, and the bottle of now open wine sat between the glasses. The waiter broke the seal on the green bottle of San Pellegrino, set it down, and ran to a table of new arrivals.
Hands waved, chairs and tables were reorganized by the customers to suit their view of what was comfortable, and the conversation of hungry patrons trying to peruse the same paper menu filled the air.
No amenities at the Nuovo Mondo. Just great service, good fun, and memorable conversation for even those who sat alone and eavesdropped. An unforgettable meal was guaranteed. The fact that the large restaurant filled within a half hour of opening and that people would soon be waiting outside for a table, were testimony to its reputation.
Arriving first at the table were the bruschetta and baccalà.
Baccalà is reconstituted cod covered and fried in a rich, thick batter. A deep golden brown, no dips for this antipasto are required. Just a wedge of lemon squeezed over the top to sharpen the taste. The cod itself, steamy and wet and marvelously appetizing, has a consistency that coats the tongue and insides of the mouth.
Living up to the definition of an antipasto, large mouth-watering bites would consume the large piece of fish much too quickly.
Basil-laced tomatoes floating in olive oil splashed across a large hunk of thick grilled bread rubbed with garlic made the Nuovo Mondo version of bruschetta the best Rick had ever tasted. There were many mediocre versions of bruschetta pomodoro available in Rome, and only the Nuovo Mondo had been able to duplicate the taste of his mother’s bruschetta. Every bite was savored.
Sips of red wine enhanced the natural flavors of each dish, and just the antipasti were enough for the small appetite. But if there was room for pizza, Rick knew that it would be a sin to pass it up.
The professor collected the antipasti plates from Rick’s table, and he gave a signal with a nod of the head to the pizza maker, as he passed by the marble counter lined with uncooked pizzas. Using a long spatula, the pizza maker scooped up Rick’s waiting order and placed it well in the back of the oven. Three minutes in a hot wood-fired oven produced the best pizza in town — literally.
“Salsiccia e funghi” the professor sang as he tossed the steaming pizza in front of Rick. The crust fell over the sides of the large plate. Red pizza sauce, fresh mozzarella, and chunks of ground sausage and Portobello mushrooms covered the crust. The aroma was intoxicating. The beauty of a thin-crust pizza is that it satisfies the appetite and doesn’t leave the diner feeling full. And of course, that means dolce and a digestivo can be consumed to complete the evening.
Conversation skipped across the outside as Rick slowly enjoyed his meal. Italians don’t pick up their pizzas. They carefully carve delectable hunks and enjoy each small bite. Rick listened to the Italians speak and laugh and trade expressive looks. They never seemed to stop talking. Women in particular liked to express themselves rapidly in sing-song fashion. Only bites of food and sips of liquid interrupted the lexis that tightly connected this culture.
Americans could learn much from the Italians when it comes to pleasure. Pleasure is more than a single event, a passing feeling — it encompasses life itself.
Charles V, the last Holy Roman Emperor, was rumored to have said that he spoke to God in Spanish, to women in Italian, to men in French, and to his horse in German. It was easy to see why he would spend his time speaking to the Italian beauties who were seemingly everywhere in Rome.
A limone sorbet and an Amaro ended the dinner. A sour tang was the ideal finishing touch to the meal, and the Amaro settled the stomach and ensured good digestion. "Only Marly is missing," Rick thought.
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