Serve the weirdo, Vincenzo

When I got into the city yesterday, it was still too early to check into my hotel room (that always happens when you are jet-lagged and need a shower), so I ditched my bag and went out wandering. The last time I was in Rome I stayed in a neighborhood north of the Vatican, so I headed there to see if I could remember my way around. At first, only a few things looked familiar, then I got a deluge of memories. It's kind of like driving at the start of a rain storm: a few rain drops ping the windshield, and then suddenly the glass is obscured by a wash of water.

Here's a very familiar sight:


I must have eaten at the Gallo Brillo at least a dozen times on my last trip. Yeah, I like it a little bit for several reasons: 1. It's inexpensive and tasty, 2. It's small and doesn't have an English menu, 3. Good house wine and espresso. Gallo Brillo is run by a family, or a least I think they're a family. There's an older man, a younger man, and a younger woman, whom I think of as The Dad, The Son, and The Daughter.
The Dad was always trying to talk me into having a shot of hard liquor after lunch. Being a man of few words, he would sidle up to the table, look at me for a minute, and suggest, "Campari?...Vodka?...[then, making a theatrical face] Grappa?!"
The Daughter always ended up bringing me coffee, therefore she is an angel.
I used to know The Son's name, I think it's something like Vincenzo. He's the main server and is especially skilled at providing sublime, one-word commentary for everything on the menu. Example: Scallopinne al Vino= "It's pig."

I can say with a reasonable degree of certainty that everyone in The Family thought I was a major weirdo. This is because during my last extended stay in Rome, I had been traveling alone for about four months and had entered some...unique head space. An illustration of me eating lunch at the Gallo Brillo during this enchanting phase of my life would include reading a crime novel with graphic depictions of blood/murder/weaponry on the cover, looking generally unkempt and scruffy, and tearing up at inappropriate times during the meal because I was remembering some Deep Thought I'd had about the meaning of life in the shower that morning.

Coincidentally, it was at about this point in my trip that I formulated one of my main theories about travel: You will have a richer dining experience if you 1. are alone, 2. are polite, and 3. come across as a little "off."

When I came into the Gallo Brillo yesterday, Vincenzo was pontificating about linguine to an Italian family sitting by the window. Five minutes later, he was schooling me in the difference between regular gnocchi and gnocchi alla Romana by drawing a 3-D representation of Gnocchi alla Romana on my tablecloth. Well, after that dazzling presentation, I'm sure you can all guess what I had for lunch. I did not cry into the post-lunch espresso that The Daughter brought me, but then again, I hadn't showered...

A couple of photos for fun:


Scene on the street.


First stop after lunch: St. Peter's! I really wanted to go in, but that line stopped me. I went for gelato instead.