Essay: Menu overwhelm

The server waits, smiling but eyes already on the bar

Jun 20, 2025

The woman from the aceteria recommends four restaurants in town, which she writes on a green post-it, neatly in capitals. The first is chic, marbled, and fully booked. The second has doors shut against the bright hot afternoon, but I will myself and my terrible Italian to venture in. They have a table but their menu is fixed, consisting only of meat. The third is closed on Mondays. The fourth however, and we are in luck.

We climb unassuming steps and enter. Servers are whipping tomato splattered cloths from tables and smoothing hands over new ones, pouring glasses of red wine and delivering knots of rolled white bread at a rate that seems at odds with the warmth of the afternoon. A young couple next to us are eating deep fried puffs of dough and the thinnest whispers of ham whilst entertaining their brand new baby. An older man is ringing up bills on the ancient till whilst another is pouring small, bitter coffees to be drunk at the bar.

We both snap the QR code on the table and try to make sense of the menu. I choose tortellini with spinach, ricotta and sage butter, followed by spaghetti pomodoro.

L falters with his phone, overwhelmed by too many options. The server waits, smiling but eyes already on the bar, waiting to deliver the next plates. L orders tortellini too, 'in brodo', and then points at something for 'secondi' on his phone. She looks at him for a millisecond, narrows her eyes, then nods efficiently.

Two plates of tortellini arrive, mine like foamy boats, frothy, thick pasta covered in black pepper and filled with cool ricotta. It is a last-meal-level good. L's are pretty, smaller dumplings, delicately formed, filled with rich Ragu and as promised, served in a light broth. We add Parmagiano with the tiny teaspoon given, and slurp greedily.

'That was heaven' I say

'Into it. Big time' L replies.

The secondis arrive. Elegantly curled spaghetti, a rich red sauce with olive oil in gleaming pools. As L's is put on the table though, his face changes, almost imperceptibly, as the server returns to the kitchen.

'Is that what you ordered?'

'It might be, it's just not what I expected'

I look at his plate. It's piled with grey meats, skins visibly pimpled, an untidy heap of cuts I don't recognise. The meat is in a variety of beigey colours, but it's the texture that looks to be the biggest issue.

'Is it nice?'

He looks down. 'I’m working on it'

My eyes stay rooted on my own spaghetti. I finish quickly.

His food appears barely touched, something that has never happened in the three years of us eating together.

'What do you think yours is?'

'I’ll tell you when we leave.’

I head to the bar to pay the friendly man on the till. He smiles and offers a mint. I tip. L is waiting for me on the stairs.

'It was an assortment of boiled creatures. Veal. Chicken. It must have been boiling for hours. I think there was a shin in there somewhere. But the centrepiece was a whole tongue.'

He rolls a cigarette, quicker than usual. I walk faster, suddenly in need of air.

'Generally I only want one tongue in my mouth when I'm eating.'

In May, we drove through Slovenia (see: the gun and the carrier bag of cake) and Italy, staying somewhere new every night. Every morning, both L and I summed up the accommodation from the previous night in six words.

I can almost taste the breakfast in each place when I read them back:

Patterned home of elderly Slovenian auntie
City centre faded glory of old
Tepid conference building surrounded by beauty
Grand ski hotel lost in time
Chic designer rooms, the greenest view
Bohinj boutique bringing comfort and joy
Two cheerful hosts, folded orange towels
Soaps in hallway (coffee was cold)
Hot pine attic with rude hosts
Noisy little dogs made stairs intense
1920s space to be someone glamorous
Charming rooms rushed after long drive
Big sky hill home brings peace
Wild, green mountain retreat from life
Salvatore's homemade lemon cake, iconic view
Exceptional host provided breakfast of champions