I have just had what is probably Rome’s version of a great diner meal. Great “home-cooked” food, surrounded by locals. On my left: an adorable trio of young Japanese men, one of whom speaks impeccable and admirable Italian to the staff who apparently know him well. Like – on a first-name basis with the awesome woman who is taking care of about a dozen tables outside – feeding over twenty people. On my other side: a young soon-to-be mother and her doting husband. Maybe American, maybe not.

The food was guh-reat. Not write-home-about great. More like the best-meal-your-gramma-whips-up-for-Sunday-supper great.

I have finished my handmade Gnocchi with Gorgonzola and Arugula. The server knows I’m done (she took my plate because I placed it on the other side of my “un tavolo per uno!” )

And yet. And yet. And yet! No hurry. No rush. No “dolce, signora?” Cue to get me the hell up and outta here.

There is even a line building up. Meaningful, because we are at the point between six kids at a table lingering over a bottle of wine, and the real dinner time. That is: it’s nearly 8 o’clock.

While I sit. Enough time to write this entire post. And still the server is not insisting on giving me “Il conto, per favore?!”

This is a life to strive for. And, I think I should utter those closing words: “the check, please!” and head home.

Well, maybe a piccola coppetta di gelato and THEN home.