The Honest Truth

“ApplaUUUUUUUUUsssEEEEEEEEE,” says the group in bright-coloured t-shirts, busting through the restaurant doors. The word is the same in Italian (prononciation excepted) but the way they draw out the syllables, it sounds like the English word with a thick Italian accent. “ApppplaUUUUUUUsssEEEEEEEEE.”

Thirty seconds ago, my Italian cousins and I  we were calmly eating our “primi piatti” of pasta with ragu sauc. Now, half the room is clapping and yelling and suddenly we’re eating in a highschool cafeteria.

“Boun a-ppe-t-ito,” some tables chant, clapping their hands or banging their utensils to the rhythm. Others, like ours, look down to avoid eye contact. Is this a bad dream? Does this mean I have acne again?

It’s our first night at a resort where myself, my cousins, and their 10-year-old son are sojourning for the next week. It’s called Costa Degli Dei (the coast of Gods) and is on the heavenly (!) coast of Capo Vaticano with it’s angelically white (!) beaches.

We’ve come from  Sicily where we stayed with my great aunt and uncle (my cousin Paolo’s parents). They have a beautiful house on the sea, but as this is Paolo’s only vacation time, he and his wife needed some time away from family. So here we are, five hours and a different ocean away ready to be treated like gods.

I find the idea of being a resort in Italy strange. It’s such a beautiful country, and holing up in a touristy microcosm of beauty seems odd and unnecessary. But I digress, I’d be a fool to say no to all inclusive pasta and a green sea.

The group of seven in their bright red t-shirts are the “animators” of the resort. After the noise settles they go around to each table introducing themselves. To them, we’re just another group of people they have to smile at and act enthousiastically towards.

There’s the pretty blonde one who flirts with all the men. There’s the nerdy looking girl who’s good with the kids. There’s the slightly overweight but attractive girl who can sing really well and a pretty brown-haired one who’s good at dancing.

There’s the jocky-looking cocky-acting boy with a shaved head. The the alternative looking one with piercings who rolls one leg of his pants up to be “different” and the slightly feminine, overly stylish one with a faux-hawk. Every guest has someone to relate to and\or be attracted to.

The resort restaurant is big, and has two floors of tables. We’re on the upper floor, table seven, distinguished only by the plant that hangs above it and keeps shedding leaves on my 10-year-old cousins plate.

Everybody sits at the same table everyday and it’s like eating with a large family of people you recognize, but don’t know. The tables are nicely set with pale yellow table clothes. The waiters are young and dressed formally in black slacks and white collar shirts with black vests. There’s a Maitre’ de dressed in what looks like the male version of a gurdle over his pants, who intensely surveys the room and quickly converses with the waiters passing by.

When we arrive at our table, 8 p.m. sharp, there’s a piece of paper waiting. It lists the primi and secondi piatti (plates)  for the next day’s lunch and dinner. We tick off what we want and give it to the host. It is like this every day: you have to know what you want to eat tomorrow before even starting tonight’s dinner. If this restaurant was a pregnant woman I’d call population control.

By the third day at the resort, the waiter’s have your type of wine and water waiting for you on the table (everybody in Italian orders either fizzy or natural water at dinner). You feel “looked after.”

The waiters wheel out the antipasto on a tray, followed by two large metal dishes, usually of pasta. You choose which kind you want, or opt for both, and they dole you out a hefty portion. After that comes a side dish, contorno. Then, after you already feel comfortably satisfied, comes the main dish. Dear Africa: I am so SO sorry. The world is not fair.

The table sitting behind us has 13 people, all from Sicily. In Italy, Sicilians have a reputation of being hard-headed, loud, lazy, and tempermental. The big family and their significant others chant along every meal with the “animators”. In fact, they’re the ones who start the “Boun a-ppe-t-ito,” song.

The animators always end up at their table, having a glass of wine, and laughing at some inside joke they made on the beach earlier that day. Then, just when it starts to get quiet, and the animators settle into their places, the table of 13 starts heckling from across the room or attempting to revive a chant.

The first night  we stare awkwardly at our plates, feigning agitation. A part of all of us wants to be sitting at the table 13, where it’s permissible to act like animals. They do look like they’re having fun…

Meals the entire week persist like this. Every lunch and dinner the animators bust in the restaurant wearing different brightly coloured shirts.  By the third day my ten-year-old cousin memorises the timing of their entrance down to the second and waits to applause with anticipation. His father, a man of intimidating stature, bobs his head to “Boun a-ppe-t-ito” and his wife, a mousey, keep-to-herself type, claps along.

I find myself banging my fork along, and letting myself enjoy the feeling that a food fight could break out at any moment.

On our seventh day, we are eating lunch before we leave that afternoon. The restaurant is a graveyard of what it once was. Tables are empty, and with them, the family you never knew and will never know again have left. There’s no piece of paper waiting to be ticked, and table 13 is eating, subdued.

Three of the animators walk in, later than usual. They’re wearing regular clothes and there’s no applause. They go around, doing their regular chit-chat, but no one’s banging their forks. Some new people have come, and they look around like awkward school kids on their day.

Two other animators dribble in, and a few minutes later, the last. The energetic blonde bubbly one went home. Halfway through lunch, her replacement comes in, who is greeted like an old friend by the other animators.

I never wanted to come to this place. In fact, I thought the whole thing was pretty lame.   But fuck it, applaaaUUUUUssssing was fun. Table 13 ended up being great drinking companions, and I’ll be sad to eat my next meal at a civilized volume.