Mind your bocconcini

I found a cheap place to eat in Venice, an otherwise very expensive city, where the quality of the food is still good. It’s self-serve, like a cafeteria, but the atmosphere is still cozy and it’s become my regular place for dinner.  On the table they have complimentary wine, which sounds very nice but is the worst wine I've ever had.  It's thick and tastes like olive oil.

The second night I was there, I picked up a plate of pasta fresco al pomodoro and a bowl of salad. The salad had greens, tomatoes, olives and bocconcini, those delicious little balls of mozzarella. I sat down and ate half before it occurred to me that there wasn’t any salad dressing, so I went to the salad bar and picked up some olive oil and balsamic vinegar. When I got back to the table and started eating again, I noticed there was no more bocconcini. I thought there was more. I went up to the cash register and said, “Mi scusi… er, when I got up from the table, someone ate all the bocconcini out of my salad.” Though the lady seemed to speak English well, it was obviously not perfect as she asked me to repeat myself, which I did.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “You want more bocconcini?”

“No,” I said. “I want justice.”

This prompted the manager’s appearance. Now we were getting somewhere. I explained the problem to him, but after some confused arguing we didn’t seem to get anywhere at all. He actually asked me to leave!

“I’m the victim here!” I said, and stood my ground. This only resulted in the carabinieri, the military police whom I’ve heard are best avoided, so when they grabbed me by the arm—I didn’t know what else to do—I screamed, “rape!”

That sorted things out.