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We walked across the bridge and down the Borgo San Iacapo. I noticed Jenny sticking her little, pink nose in the air and sniffing. “I’m hungry,” She said.
The sun was almost directly overhead and the day had warmed considerably. Wandering down the narrow, dark, cobblestoned street, we found a small trattoria called ‘Cammillo.’ We walked in. “It smells good,” Jenny whispered.
Trattoria Cammillo had curved, brick ceilings, like an old wine cellar, white linen table clothes, and walls covered with art work.
I asked for a table near the rear and though the restaurant was fairly crowded, we got seated immediately. “I hope they don’t think your mafiosi,” Jenny said.
“Not with me asking for an English language menu,” I said.
I read Jenny the menu, which seemed to go on forever. I kept having to swallow, as the description of some of the dishes made my mouth water. “Yum, that sounds good,” she said, as I read the description of the grilled sardines with penne pasta.
The waiter was pleasant, but busy and not into long explanations about the menu. I said ‘no’ to ‘antipasti,’ but when I ordered the sardines for Jenny, and then the frittata for me, the waiter wanted to know if the sardines were ‘il primo,’ or ‘il secondo.’
“Secondo,” I said. Then, “Entree.”
“Due primo?” the waiter said.
“Yes, si,” I said. Yes, I wanted two main course, one for me and one for my cat, I thought.
“Si, va bene,” the waiter said. “Contorno? A side dish?”
I ordered a side of the rapini, and a half liter of the house Chianti.
I sat the gym bag with Jenny in it on the chair next to me and fed her the sardines one little fish at a time. “How do you like them?” I said.
“Delicious, but I wish they’d left the heads on,” she said.