It was a while ago, and I have forgotten the restaurant. It was on a back street, around a corner, down an alley, somewhere in Florence.

We entered and sat down. Big tables...Long tables....people already sitting, eating, laughing. We were young and impetuous...no matter that we couldn't speak a word of Italian.

I remember thinking, "This is nice, the appetizers are already here." And what a selection! White Bean salad...green salad...mushrooms...mussels....and a jug of Chianti that was never empty.

We were young. We ate plenty. After all, each time a dish was empty, it was refilled. Then the little old man came to the table and put a plate of Ravioli in front of each of us. Mmmmm. Good. And we were full. I mean full...bursting...

And just about that time, when we thought we could eat no more, the little old man came back. "Wadda you want for the main course? Chicken? Fish? Meat?" he said.

Sometime, maybe a week later we staggered out. Staggered. Somewhat numb of any sensation and thought. The meal lasted forever, and cost practically nothing.

To this day I wonder, "Is every Italian meal like that one?"
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