Mama Rita

Rita is the chef in her own Italian restaurant named after her mother, Rosa.  it is called, "Mama Rosa's".

She is about 5'0 and as sassy as they come.  

You walk in the door and she will come up and say accusingly, "It's been a while since I saw you!"  Or, sarcastically, "So what's the occasion?"

You sit down and she hands out the menus, even though we always order the exact same meal every time we dine there.  

The last time, the whole family went to celebrate our daughter's graduation.  For starters we decided to share three mini garlic pizzas between the seven of us.  "Why don't you just order one family size pizza to share?"  Rita wants to know.  I am used to her interference.

"Because that's not the way we want to do it," I reply.

Eventually we progress to the main courses.  And I will add here as an aside that no-one anywhere cooks fillet mignon like Rita.  But back to the story.  The boys have chips with their kid's meals.  Only there is no salt on them.  They ask for salt.

Rita hovers over them.  "Too much salt is not good for you," she tells them.  

"It's ok, Rita," I interject.  "Let them have salt on their chips."  

She brings them this huge, tall grinder with rock salt in it with a cunning expression on her face.  Their arms are not long enough to reach to the top of it to grind the salt and an adult has to do the honours.  A lot of grinding producers a small sprinkle of salt.

After about an hour, Rita checks on the progress of the meal and sees that the boys are still trying to get through theirs.  "Why haven't you finished your meal?" she demands.  

"We're full!"  they reply.  She turns to us, the guilty parents.

"That's what happens when you let them have drinks with their meals,"  she says.  "I see it all the time.  You should not let them have a drink with their meal until they are at least half way through it."

Triumphantly, she asks the adults if we would like to order desserts.  We would.

"I will have a tartufo.  Without embellishment," I add warningly.

"Not even chocolate topping?"  asks Rita temptingly.

"No," I reply.

"Not even a little cream?"  she cajoles.

"No," I reiterate.  "Just a plain, unadulterated tartufo, please."

She smiles cunningly.  " I will make it nice for you!" And with a determined flourish she heads back to the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, out comes the tartufo, sitting on a doily topped with a glace cherry.

"Very nice,"  I say approvingly.

We always manage to end on a positive note.  But just as well she is such a good cook!

  



perseverer perseverer
56-60, F
2 Responses May 7, 2012

Yes; she really makes the joint, doesn't she? And it is good to see the place surviving year in, year out.

I laughed when I read this!! It is soooo true!. Pretty much the same thing happened to me and dear hubby when we went along. We had our meal choices criticised, told what we SHOULD order, and in what size, and what we should order to go with it, and what to drink.<br />
As you say, it's always packed in there because Man o Man can she COOK!