Little Italy, Viet Nam

Last week while I was talking to Scott on Skype, it came up that I had never seen THE GODFATHER. Like all men of a certain age and ethnic background, and especially men of a certain city, he was appropriately aghast. So he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: he would send me the GODFATHER movies via iTunes, and I would enjoy them. Like it or not.

And truth be told I did like them. Now, I admit I couldn’t watch all the killing scenes. If I knew one was coming, I would keep listening but minimize the movie window on my computer. As you might imagine, a decent portion of Francis Ford Coppola’s footage was spent in a little box at the bottom of my Mac’s screen.

Still, it was a couple of solid hours well spent, and it put me in the perfect mood for one the most exciting things that has happened to me since I moved to Hai Duong City, Viet Nam.

THE OPENING OF AN ITALIAN RESTAURANT.

A decent amount of my writing on this blog has been spent talking about my culinary trials and triumphs. I know you get it: I eat chicken, I eat vegetables, I sometimes get sick, and I miss my Mama’s cooking.

A few weeks ago I saw a sign going up in front of a new restaurant in town reading “Ristorante Italia.” I was intrigued of course, but also skeptical, thinking it was fairly possible that this “Ristorante’s” pizza might be served with a topping of chicken feet. But today I walked through those red, white, and green striped doors and felt like Vito Corleone himself was looking down on me from heaven.

There were frescoes of the Sicilian countryside painted alongside the faux brick and cracks. There were vines dangling plastic grapes from the ceiling and racks upon racks of wine bottles lining the walls. There was also a single rose on every table, alongside little bottles of olive oil and mini pepper grinders.



And then I saw them. In the little office off the first floor of the restaurant. Two men. Middle aged. Salt and pepper slicked back hair. Portly stomachs.

Real Italians. Running a real Italian restaurant. I was so happy I almost cried.

I got settled into my table-for-one and ordered an amazing Margherita pizza with pesto and a decadent tiramisu for dessert. Mr. Arno Sorbella came over and introduced himself to me. He guaranteed everything was homemade and the cheese was imported. After lunch, he gave me a tour of the kitchen, showed me the custom made pizza oven, and told me to call a day ahead if I ever wanted anything that wasn’t on the menu. He also gave me a “Pizza passport” card, so every 11th pizza I buy will be free.

Give me a week or two.