F.I.B.: Da Regina
As today I’ve been a little dry-mouthed and pain-headed, a little hungover, I am going to take the first Friday in Bracciano (F.I.B.) to write about Da Regina. Da Regina, because Bracciano wouldn’t be the same without the queen; and, I would have felt fine this morning if it weren’t for her.
Da Regina is a shiny gem among other shining gems. Food, hence restaurants in Italia, is one of the two fulcrums Italians waver upon, the other being moda, which I will no doubt tear apart another time. To eat at Da Regina is to eat the best Italian restaurant experience. Why? Because the service sucks; because the kitchen is the size of my thumb and everything is cooked without rush, without pressure, in the order in which the order is received; because the prices are still lire and it’s the cheapest plate of pasta around; because the portions are enough for two; because like they say in California, everything is cooked ‘in season’; because the restaurant is the royal family’s living room where the portly king sits back, relaxes, is served, while he watches TV; because Da Regina is Da Regina.
Da Regina I assume to be the matron. She is the one is charge. If she doesn’t like you, if you ask for something out of turn, you run the risk of being purposely forgotten. She is imposing with her black teeth and heavy eyeliner; when she smiles she squeezes her teeth and draws back her lips, not like a growl, but not much of a smile either. We have made good getting on Regina’s good side: we tip, we’re nice and quiet people.
Simon eats a big plate of assorted brown meats and I eat a big plate of assorted colorful vegetables or pasta or fish or hand-made french fries or cicoria or lasagna and for desert tiramisu and limoncello. The tiramisu reminds me of yellow dripping lincoln logs, for at Regina the tiramisu is not it’s usual dainty self, at Regina the tiramisu is a house. Like last night, this couple had obviously never been at Regina before. They had done the standard Italian meal: to each a primo, a massive plate of pasta, a secondo, a massive plate of meat with a contorno, to top it off, tiramisu! When the principe very hastily threw down their deserts the man was tongue-tied and overwhelmed and then they looked at each other with this sad desperation, “Now we have to eat this!” They laughed and they finished it all. The Italians have two stomachs, I believe.
All hail the queen!
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