Last night I had dinner in Sfoglia with my son, almost two years old, and his mother. The chicken was as good as I remember.
After half an hour or so an elderly couple was seated next to us. The man ordered a diet coke, the woman a cocktail, I believe a tequila sunrise.
They had a rather lengthy discussion with the waiter and then the man then ordered the chicken, the women with a sigh veal Milanese, as if she was bored with veal Milanese but there was nothing else on the menu.
There was a long silence.
The woman started looking at my son, who was walking around. The look on her face didn’t leave room for doubt. My son was disturbing her.
We got our apple tart and I asked for the check, right away the man said rather loud: ‘Finally, they are leaving.’ I looked at him – I’ve little patience for diners who believe that children in restaurants are just a human extension of the rat – he just stared back, but his wife said to me: ‘Just 44 years more to go.’
I didn’t want to know what she meant, so I nodded.