written By
(Lecce, Southern Italy)
A soft feather drifts to the sidewalk where a woman rests her heavy frame on
the low concrete steps that lead to her small restaurant, the one her mother
passed on to her. She is on a break from the daily prep, dressed in cotton
trousers cut at her thick calf and tee shirt. Her faded apron carries the stains
of olive oil, tomatoes, red wine. She knows them like the neighborhood. She
could walk these stale streets with her eyes closed. The feather lands at her
feet, she looks up and takes a long drag on her cigarette. Pigeons, dull witless
creatures. She will open her door at 5:00, and the place will gradually fill with
locals, some with kids, a few with dogs. Patrons will step out onto the
sidewalk for a smoke between courses. The pace will be leisurely, the children
content, no one with a schedule. She will move from table to table, sit with
the regulars. She serves a complimentary digestivo at the end of each meal –
an old family recipe – and diners will carry them into the street to enjoy with
their smoke. She will close the door at 1:00 or 2:00 depending on the night.
Her crew will clear the tables and swab the floor, and she will sleep upstairs
for a few hours before repeating the routine. Each morning at break she sits
on the step and watches the pigeons. Today they strut along a ledge one story
up, two grey in the lead, a white following. They drop to a lower ledge one
after the other, their red-pronged feet moving in lock step. At the corner
where the street meets the crossroad they pause, then fly free. She waves her
cigarette in the air, bastardos, stubs it beneath her heel.
