Cooper Goes to Pizzeria, Fails Basic Cultural Cues

I'm generally on my own for lunch, and today was no exception. After a few minutes wandering around my neighborhood, I ended up outside a pizzeria that my mamma had pointed out to me earlier as being good. The menu they had posted outside was pretty reasonably priced, so I headed in.

When I got inside, I noticed a counter with a guy standing behind it. Figuring this was the place where the ordering part of the whole food transaction process took place, I approached him and ordered a pizza. "Per favore, posso avere una pizza margherita?" Was I pretty proud of my Italian? Yeah. I even had the presence of mind to tell him that I preferred to eat there rather than take my pizza and leave. Rather than give me a pizza on the spot, he called to a waitress standing nearby, who took me over to a table and sat me down. It was at this point that I realized I had actually entered a sitdown restaurant, meaning that my previous conversation had essentially been akin to walking into an American restaurant and immediately placing an order at the hostess' desk. Definitely took my proud I-own-this-country mindset down a peg or two.

Anyways, she sat me down at the table and took away the menu (I guess they already knew what I wanted), and peaced out. So there I was, sitting alone at my table, while groups of people around me chatted and were merry. It wouldn't have been so bad if I had a book to read or something. At least there was one other guy in the restaurant who was eating alone. Granted, he was about 90 and all of his friends were probably already dead, but it was still some consolation.

After about 10 minutes of awkwardly being ignored by everyone at the restaurant who didn't want to talk to me because they knew I wouldn't understand them anyway, my pizza came out. It was huge. I guess it was meant for closer to three people rather than just one.

Imagine that this is me (except for minus female companions, and looking slightly more Italian in my suave new sweater. Eating the same amount of pizza).

Apparently the cart punched the horse in the face and left it lying in a ditch (or however that saying goes), because it turns out that for all its incredible achievements, mankind has not yet invented a plate capable of containing food of this magnitude. Pizza was falling off the edges of my plate, which made it difficult to cut (did I mention my pizza came with it's own steak knife?), and ensured that I spread grease everywhere. But, American hero that I am, I inevitably finished, leaving me to sit yet again in my own silence. At this point the old guy was happily conversing with the people next to him. I finally made it back home in time for my mamma to laugh at me for being so American.

People don't eat snacks in Italy. I guess when you're eating King Kong pizzas for lunch, you don't need to.