How often have you read a guidebook’s handy tips for travellers after you’ve done something unpleasant? The line we missed on this occasion? It read: "Unless you want to be desperately disappointed, under no circumstance should you eat in restaurants near the Vatican museum. They are, without exception, awful and will leave you with a feeling of self-loathing and bitterness." Or something like that.
In our defence, it was a moment of weakness coupled with the persuasive and surprisingly muscular powers of tiny waitresses who virtually manhandle you into the restaurant. When walking from St. Peter’s square to the entrance of the Vatican museum you must never appear to slow your pace and don’t glance right, whatever you do. Before we knew it we found ourselves sat under a bright yellow awning virtually on top of another couple with a laminated menu in our hands.
Our appetites started to ebb away long before the food arrived. We only stayed for the same reason that people don’t walk out of bad films. You have to know how this will end. The Blonde received her chicken fillets wrapped in prosciutto with good grace (she was brought up very well) while I could barely hide the look of abject disappointment when presented with my risotto Milanese. Any Milanese worth his salt would have been so affronted by this insult to their city that the only recourse would be to burn down the restaurant. It was a pile of yellow rice.
After the Blonde had revealed the burnt corners of her incinerated chicken from under the cunningly placed lettuce, we decided that the only thing we could do was giggle like school children throughout the rest of the meal. So we did, much to the consternation of the English family behind us.
Be strong, don’t weaken. The waitresses look so pleading as they drag you in, as if to say "The owner will beat us if we don’t fill the tables . . . please come, pleeeaasse". Harden yourself or rescue them from their plight. Just don’t eat the food.