Travel Stories: A Hotel Restaurant That Did Not Suck

I expected to be underwhelmed. Myself and my two Italian companions arrived tired and weary from our drive to Spoleto and we didn't feel like venturing into the city nor spend any more time in the car to find dinner. It happens. We knew that our options for a great meal would be limited in the tiny town we were staying in just outside the city. Our hotel actually had a restaurant, but it was only open in the high season. "Thankfully," I thought to myself, "we don't have to succumb to that fate." So, we padded downstairs to ask our genial hotel manager for somewhere to eat nearby. His advice, head to the hotel down the street instead; their restaurant was open. "Bummer," I thought, "we're going to overpay and be underwhelmed." We hesitantly headed that way and wondered whether or not we should muster the energy to get back in the car.

As we peered in the restaurant's windows and pondered such ideas, out popped a young waiter ushering us into the dining room. "Suckered," I thought, "now we've got to eat here." All eyes were upon us from the few small tables we passed as we entered and I noticed that a private party seemed to have overtaken the restaurant. Were those glances feeling sorry for us, that we'd settled on the same fate as them? Or were we entering some sort of family reunion where we didn't belong? We quickly deciphered that those pained looks were those of warning, as we were seated directly behind the boisterous table of thirty-some high school Polish students celebrating the end of their studies in Italy.

As we sat perusing the menu, a disheveled chef named Arno wandered by our table and quickly began telling us what to order. I couldn't help but notice that he didn't quite match the black and white uniformed wait staff. He was in chef pants, a stained white t-shirt, crocs, and his hair looked as if he'd just gotten up from an extended afternoon nap. I stopped judging his appearance and began to try to listen to what he was describing. Traveling through Italy with Italians doesn't give you the same leisure as when you're alone. You've got to listen hard to the Italian and get the gems of information, because when they turn to you, smile, and give you the English-friendly version, they gloss over the fun details such as what pasta he had just made, and assume that you're just like every other American he's ever met, clueless. When I finally decided on my order, he felt inclined to give me a few other options than what was on the menu. I didn't know if he was trying to Americanize my meal with a standard pasta sauce or if it was just something else that happened to be in the kitchen. I stuck to my guns and got what I wanted. And when he singled me out later, and asked if I needed a spoon to help me eat my pasta. I refused and then immediately became terrified at every bite that my pasta eating skills weren't up to par. But, we didn't ignore his advice entirely and agreed to what was an extravagant antipasto platter of truffles, boar salami, cheeses, and chickpeas to die for.

That plate was joined by a huge slice of lasagna for each of us that we didn't order. Suddenly, being sat next to a large noisy group became a good thing. The chef had made too much for their table and slid the slices on our plates as he headed back to the kitchen. So, we got their leftovers and a hearty dose of entertainment. The teenagers frequent smoke breaks led us to believe they might be of the herbal variety and their terrible understanding of Italian and Arno's joking way with them was even more amusing. When dinner was finished, they were determined to order cappuccinos, and was,perhaps, the only Italian word they understood. (I'm hoping they weren't in Italy to study Italian.) Arno explained to them slowly in Italian and with a smile "you don't want a cappuccino, I won't make you one. It's for BREAKFAST." The only word understood.... cappuccino. One brave soul replied "Si, si, quattro cappuccino! Grazie!"

Meanwhile, our pasta dishes that we actually ordered arrived. For me, tagliatelle with cingale (or boar sauce) and my companions, Francesco and Fabiola, choose the local favorite, strengozzi. I'll never forget Francesco's exclamation when he took his first bite, "make no mistake, THIS is pasta al dente and it's absolutely perfect." Wine flowed, we congratulated ourselves for having the foresight to not order second courses and lamented that it would probably be better to skip dessert. Arno was having none of it. "You must have some tiramisu,"he said. We caved and amazed ourselves by actually feeling less full after eating dessert. Finally, the time came for drinks and we protested and successfully sent Arno away, or so we thought. He returned a few minutes later with three glasses of grappa. We sipped slowly while watching the students (who were now without the company of their chaperons) doing anything they could to beg, borrow or bribe the waiters for a bottle of vino. They were shameless and their puppy dog eyes and pleading indeed got them a bottle. But not after a ton of heckling and teasing that was sadly lost on them, but nonetheless entertained us immensely.

We were the last table to leave the restaurant that night. Our stomachs full of good Umbrian food, our hearts warmed by a charming staff, and our wallets full. Not only did we have a fantastic time, but our bill was so low that we felt like we were walking away like bandits. And my mind was forever changed about the dreaded hotel restaurant.

The Facts:
Vecchio Forno
Loc. Cortaccione, 172 06049
06049 Spoleto (PG), Italy
36 euro for three (for vino, acqua, antipasti, primi, dolce, grappa and a slice of lasagna)

View Larger Map