Learning from Alfredo
'Small World' The Carlow Nationalist April 2011
I was foot-sore and ravenous when I stumbled across Alfredo’s tiny restaurant; tucked away like a sacred relic in the shade of another Roman church in another Roman back-street.
For over an hour – or maybe longer – I had been well and truly lost; but lost in a sense where time and direction have no meaning and no belonging. Wandering aimlessly through the back-streets of Rome; watching cats stretch their long legs in the last golden light of day, listening to the echoed shouts and footfalls of children as they play their games in distant streets, standing to gaze at a lofty bell-tower – its bells announcing the passing of another hour – savouring the lostness that only serves to emphasise exactly where you are.
It
was the smoky scent of grilling meat which stopped me dead in my tracks. The
delicious heady tones of flame and fat were almost visible on the evening air,
curling from the darkness that lay concealed beyond the narrow doorway. At
first glance there was nothing to indicate that this was a place where a
visitor would be welcomed, fed and sated. There was no brash signage or
laminated menu bearing the flags of Europe and ill-conceived translations. The grey building gave the
appearance of a stooped old man, leaning at an awkward angle and shedding its
plaster in lumps. Above the flaking doorway a small canopy announced in two,
hand-painted words ‘Ristorante Alfredo’.
I ventured inside its coolness and half-light, my eyes adjusting to its tranquility. Four wooden tables, each covered with rustic red and white checkered cloths, stood sentry to my arrival. From somewhere distant a radio played a tango. With the feeling that I had invaded a holy place I turned and was about to leave when a voice broke the silence. I turned to see a large round man in a white apron leaning heavily on the wooden counter. Had he been there all along and I hadn’t seen him? I wondered. His thick greying moustache trembled as he fired the first volley of rapid Italian. He waited for my response as I picked my way through words I thought I recognised, but nothing came. He fired a second volley. “Mi dispiace, non parlo Italiano” I mumbled. He smiled and walked towards carrying a limp which gave his movement a rolling motion like a boat bobbing on the waves.
“You want eat?” he asked and patted my shoulder with his large hands, “maybe drink wine?” I smiled, “Si, per favore. Grazie.” Alberto ushered me to a chair by the open door and waved his hands as if to say “please, it is cooler here”. He disappeared behind the counter and swished through the strands of hanging plastic that served as a door. From back there in his world I heard the sounds of bottles and glasses followed by the familiar pull of a cork from a bottle. Alfredo returned with an earthenware jug of wine and two glasses. He filled both glasses with the dark wine and raised his own. “Salute!” he said with an honest smile as we clinked glasses. He fired another volley of Italian then scratched his head. “Five minutos, ok, five minutos,” he said and returned to his own world behind the strands of hanging plastic.
As I savoured the fruitiness of the wine the sounds of everyday life wafted in on the light breeze through the open door. Women talked across balconies, a dog barked in the distance. In the kitchen Alfredo hummed as he worked to the sound of a tango that seemed to go on forever and ever.
He returned with a single dish in his hands. It was a veritable feast. A prime rack of succulent ribs roasted to perfection, grilled vegetables – peppers, onions, tomatoes and aubergines – a loaf of crusty bread and a bottle of green oil in whose transparent liquid cloves of garlic and stems of rosemary vied for position. It was truly a feast. Again we clinked glasses. “Buono appetite,” Alfredo declared and left me alone to enjoy his creation.
I couldn’t finish the meal but, through sign-language and patting my gorged stomach, I made my apologies. I thanked this affable man and asked for my bill. He wrote upon my napkin, ‘€8’. Surely it was a mistake? But it was no mistake. As we attempted to communicate, each in our own mother-tongue, he led me towards the strands of hanging plastic and swept them aside. Alfredo smiled with pride as he displayed his kitchen; smaller than a broom cupboard. Pots and pans hung from hooks on the ceiling, every inch of space was preciously employed to house some implement or ingredient of his profession. On the small open stove skewers of ribs roasted above a naked flame; nothing else just ribs.
After our farewells Alfredo pointed me in the right direction and I set about my journey home. As I walked I wondered. Why can’t we do this in Ireland? Why has everything become governed by rules and regulations? Why can’t we show tourists and visitors to our country that we too have traditions of hospitality and gastronomy without being stifled by countless laws that bind our creativity. Is it not possible that somewhere in Ireland there is another Alfredo waiting to show the visitor that his food is the best in the land, that his smile is more welcoming than any other’s?
The age of the ‘Irish Pub’ is fast dying, so now is the time to reinvent. Allow small bars and restaurants to open without undue regulation. Allow them to charge what they will for their food and drinks without the bullying voices of Vintner’s Groups calling the shots. If they are not good enough they will not survive! If they are good enough they will show the world that Ireland is a land of true creative thinking and innovation and a country worth visiting once again. Let’s all learn a lesson from Alfredo.
