The Sit in the Rain Kind of Tasty

We were in Rome! All of us crunched into a tiny apartment that we had rented out. You could definitely tell we were tourists. We had our zip off pants on, our hiking boots laced up, and all 8 of us were sporting Italia sweatshirts. Our day had started out kind of rough. My mom had already wet her pants laughing over toilet paper hanging out of someone’s pants at the airport. And when I had ordered my gelato in the café down the street, I spoke to them in French, not Italian. My dad has a stain on his white t shirt and it was pouring rain, but how could we complain we were staying across the street from the Coliseum.

My dad had come prepared. He had researched every restaurant within a 70-mile radius of our apartment and there was one that he was dying to try. It was a little café at the end of our street with the best gnocchi to grace this world, or so the reviews said. In fact, I had never even heard of gnocchi. I don’t even remember the name of the restaurant but as all 8 of the Van De Walker clan entered the door of the tiny café, every head turned to look at our sopping wet, tourist clothes. The place was jam packed. “I’m sorry,” the waiter said, “we have no room for such a large familia.” And then that’s when my dad said the four dreaded words. “We can sit outside.” We all looked at my father in detest and confusion. WE could not sit outside. It was pouring rain. My dad looked back at us with triumph as the waiter picked up some menus and very confusedly escorted us outside. The waiter didn’t bother to come out into the rain. He pointed to a table drenched in water. We sat down in seats drenched with water. And zipped up our water proof jackets so we didn’t become DRENCHED IN WATER. At least the menus had plastic coverings. I had had it. This was the worst day of my life. The waiter came outside with an umbrella and a few extra for each of us. He explained the food wouldn’t taste as good if there was excess water in the meals. My dad ordered practically everything on the menu from bruschetta to the famous gnocchi. The waiter left and it started to rain harder.

I was freezing and annoyed out of mind and questioning my father's sanity when four waiters appeared at our table, under their umbrellas, with steaming dishes of pasta. There was spaghetti, alfredo, a margherrita pizza, soups and homemade breads. The aromas were to die for. I can smell it now. Ah! All of us dug in with one hand as we held the umbrellas over the food with our other. That’s when I tasted gnocchi. And let me tell you, the reviews were right, it was the best thing to grace God’s green planet. It was smooth, silky, and drenched in pesto. That’s when I heard my brother laugh. We were all laughing. It was raining, and we were laughing. I guess homemade Italian food has that effect.

Sometimes, when I eat a meal, I catch myself saying “this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” But then I have to put it through some criteria. Would I sit in the rain for this? Kind of like how Dr. Seuss asks about green eggs and ham - “would you, could you eat this in the rain?” Why yes Dr. Seuss, I could eat this in the rain but only if it’s gnocchi from the corner café in Rome.