“Where are we eating tonight, Tammie?” The afternoon was growing late, and I felt hungry. Reading could no longer hold my attention.

Studying the screen on her phone, my daughter questioned, “What are you hungry for? There are dozens of restaurants within walking distance of this apartment. I’m checking for the ones that have the highest ratings.”

Shrugging, I commented, “Ratings don’t mean anything if the chef is having a bad day. As for what I want to eat, I won’t know until I see a menu.”

“Well, I know what I want to eat,” Tammie confided. “It’s on the menu at a small, four-and-a-half star-rated restaurant a few blocks from here. They also offer beer and honey marinated wild boar ribs, which I know you’d like.”

Tossing my book aside, I asked incredulously, “Are you going to order what I’ve heard you call the most iconic Roman noodle dish, pasta Carbonara? You can’t! Well, you shouldn’t! It’s made with dairy products.”

Waving my objections aside, my daughter assured me, “I can’t visit Rome without trying carbonara. Don’t worry, I’ll take Lactaid and I’ll be all right.”

The restaurant wasn’t very far from our apartment. To get there, Tammie and I walked to the backside of our apartment building where there were dimmer lights and fewer people. Crossing a small, deserted car parking area, we came to a narrow alley. Down that alley we found another, even smaller alley. A lit café sign and a raised platform containing six tables and chairs indicated we had reached our destination. There were no customers. 

My daughter and I chose a table and sat down. I peeked through the open doorway into the building and saw another small group of tables and chairs. No one was in there, either. The only person we saw was a man who didn’t look like a customer. He was just sitting on the patio passing time, whistling a short, four note tune over and over. I whispered to Tammie, “It looks like we’re the only customers and that guy is creeping me out.”

 Tammie said, “It’s only 8 PM. Most people in Rome don’t eat this early in the evening.” A woman who appeared to run the restaurant finally came to our table and gave us menus. The dish that looked the best to me was the wild boar, so I ordered that.         

By the time our food came, two other couples had arrived and sat down. The strange, whistling man was our waiter. Tammie took double the regular dose of Lactaid and then dug into her pasta dish. I leaned forward to inquire, “How is it? Does it live up to your expectations?”

Tammie put her fork down and shrugged “It’s okay, I guess. It’s not very memorable or as good as I hoped. But it’s pasta and Iove pasta.”

The ribs I ordered were meltingly tender and delicious. Tasting them, Tammie said, “I wish I had ordered that, too!”

Studying the meat and the bones on my plate, I mused, “This doesn’t look like the pork ribs I make at home.

My daughter leaned forward and quietly shared, “That’s because it’s wild boar, which some people in Italy consider a gourmet food.”

I thoughtfully mused, “That’s a good thing. I’ve read that the boar population in Tuscany and Umbria are getting out of hand.”  

I never noticed that there was another small restaurant across from the one we were sitting at, until a couple seated at a table near us got up and crossed the narrow cobblestone alley to enter it. Was the couple unhappy with the service they received, or did they realize too late that they were in the wrong location? That restaurant didn’t have café tables outside, just a few tables in a garden-level kitchen and dining area. Despite the narrowness of the alley, cars occasionally drove past. We even saw a police car patrol the area.

When we finished our meal, the chef offered us dessert. My daughter and I said yes, we wanted the dairy-free mint ice listed on the menu. The woman said brusquely, “We’re out of that.” We meekly agreed to try a different dessert.

The dessert that arrived at our table was strange. It consisted of one half of a peach, which I suspected came from a can, and heated to boiling point. A lumpy chocolate sauce with crumbled macarons stirred into it completely covered the peach half. Several pomegranate seeds sprinkled on top of the mess was an obvious attempt to elevate the dessert’s appearance. Making sure no one was nearby, I told my daughter, “How much did we pay for this? It looks like something that had to be cleaned up from aisle two.”

Taking a bite and making a face, Tammie lamented, “It cost nine euro’s. How could a cook make the best pork ribs I’ve ever tasted and then this?”

Gingerly chewing the last bite of dead peach drowned in grainy chocolate, I calculated, “Nine euros are about fifteen American dollars.  Who ever gave this restaurant four and a half stars, must have only ordered the beer and honey marinated boar ribs!”