Photo by Sten Ritterfeld on Unsplash
You’re reading Home Truths, a newsletter from me, Susy Smith. I am many things: a parent of grown-up kids, a dog owner, a gardener and a compulsive mover of vases (I worked for years as a stylist). I am also a writer/editor and former Editor-in-Chief of British Country Living Magazine, for whom I still write a monthly column.
I write here on an eclectic mix of subjects about life, and a few of the lessons I’ve learned along the way. Subscribe now for free and join the community! You can also support me and my work by upgrading to a paid subscription at any time – just tap the button below and whichever you choose, thank you for your support.
Our local Italian restaurant is a mere five minute’s walk from the house, so my husband and I are regular visitors. As well as serving great food, the staff are always friendly and welcoming, finding us a good table and bringing our favourite wine without us even having to ask. There is novelty value too, as one of the waiters does card tricks that are a hit with both young and old: we enjoy listening to the “oohs” and “aahs” and bursts of laughter as he entertains those at the other tables.
On occasions, one of the other waiters brings out his guitar and walks around the restaurant, singing a selection of traditional Italian songs interspersed with modern hits. Whilst we sometimes join in – especially if we are well into our second bottle of wine - most customers are less comfortable with the whole performance. Card tricks are one thing but singing is quite another. Displaying typical English reserve, they look uncomfortable and talk to one another intently, doing all they can to ignore the serenading waiter.
I wonder why singing seems to cause so much embarrassment to the British? I suppose because it’s something that most people don’t do these days. When I was a child in Northern Ireland, we had singing classes at school, sang together in assembly every morning and joined in the hymns in church on Sunday. In the past, all over Britain, a good night out generally included music and singing of some sort with folk often gathering round a piano and joining in the dittys everyone knew.
It’s still common for many other nations, think, for example, of the Germans and Austrians in their bierkellars, the Welsh with their choirs, the Irish and Scots crooning their sad ballads about being far away from their homeland and the Italians who will sing any time anywhere. Joining in a good sing-song is part and parcel of their everyday lives, bringing people together and creating an important kinship that has roots going back centuries in their culture. We, on the other hand, might sing in the shower or hum along to pop songs on the radio but these are private affairs. Even though we gather round to listen to buskers in the street, few of us would think of joining in.
The best busking entertainment I ever experienced was in Rome and even if we had wanted to join in, it was way beyond our capabilities. My daughters and I were there for a short city break. We went for dinner at a restaurant that came highly recommended by a friend who had lived in Italy for a while. The food was top notch, so much so that we found it hard to choose what to have from the extensive menu.
The spring evening was comfortably warm so we were sitting at one of the numerous outdoor tables under a large awning. Suddenly amongst the chatter and laughter of our fellow diners, rose several dramatic notes in the voice of a classic soprano. We turned in our seats and there she was, just next to the outermost tables. Her voice was incredible and was soon joined by the complementary tones of the tenor standing a short distance from her. We couldn’t work out if this was entertainment laid on by the restaurant or if these were street buskers, Italian style, but no matter, we were entranced and quite happy to listen for as long as it lasted.
I am not an opera buff or even an opera fan so I have no idea what their piece came from, but it was stunning. For 15 minutes they batted exchanges back and forth, he picking up when she left off and vice versa, their flawless voices balancing one another and sounding glorious. They finished with a flourish and bowed as we and the other diners broke into rapturous applause. The male singer handed a small fabric bag to the table nearest him and as each group of customers added coins, it was passed on. So, these were indeed buskers but of the highest quality I had ever seen.
If that was the best entertainment I’d ever had at a restaurant, I also remember the worst: it still sends shivers down my spine. I was in my twenties and going out with a fellow art student. One weekend, he took me to see his parents who I had met a couple of times but didn’t know well. They suggested we all went to a Greek restaurant near where they lived in a suburb of London.
As soon as we walked in, I had a bad feeling. There was an area of wooden flooring in the middle of the restaurant – quite clearly a dance floor. Don’t get me wrong, I love a dance, in fact it’s usually difficult to get me to sit down once I’m ‘on the floor’ but I certainly wasn’t planning to trip the light fantastic with my boyfriend or his parents and surely, we were here to eat, not to dance. Anyway, what kind of dancing, I wondered warily, would take place in a Greek restaurant?
However, all seemed pretty normal and although the restaurant wasn’t busy, there were a few tables occupied by other diners, mostly middle aged, chatting quietly to one another as they perused the menu. An attentive and effusive waiter showed us to our table. So far so good. My boyfriend’s parents asked me polite questions about my family and about how I was getting on at college while we sipped glasses of wine and waited for our Greek mezze to arrive.
Then, suddenly with no warning whatsoever, the opening bars of some middle eastern-sounding music blared out of a pair of speakers. A multi-coloured plastic strip curtain that hung across a doorway next to the kitchen parted and with an extravagant entrance, a belly dancer burst into the room. She was, shall we say, a full-figured woman, clearly of Eastern descent and wearing the traditional garb of the trade: a floor length silky skirt sitting low on the hips with a fringed and beaded belt that shimmered and shook as she sashayed between the tables, along with a sequinned and heavily fringed bra that was having difficulty supporting her ample bosom.
A veil covered the lower part of her face, not that anyone was looking at her face anyway. Every middle-aged man in the room swivelled in his seat, eyes rivetted to the dancer’s prized possessions as she shook, wriggled and gyrated. My boyfriend’s mother nodded along to the music, seemingly at ease with the situation. I was mortified. I caught my boyfriend’s eye across the table and mouthed “What the hell?”. I could tell that he too was caught off guard by this cabaret and feeling just about as uncomfortable as I was. But this was only the beginning.
The dancer began to visit each table in turn, wiggling her hips back and forth and leaning forward giving diners a closeup of the deep ravine of her cleavage. I was thinking “Oh God no. Please don’t let her come over here”. But, of course she did. She absolutely did. She shimmied up behind my boyfriend, placed her large, sequin-encrusted breasts either side of his head and began to gyrate so that these huge mountains of flesh were pummelling his head and face.
He was unable to move – not least because he was rooted to the spot with embarrassment. His glasses shot off and landed on the other side of the table, his face turned bright red and I shall never forget the look of horror on his face as it was covered and then revealed over and over again as the music and the dancer became more frenetic. I glanced over at his father and witnessed a look of pure longing: I could tell he was thinking “Why couldn’t that have been me?” As I looked around the restaurant, everyone was staring at us and laughing.
I too have laughed about it many times since and indeed I am chortling now at the memory of the evening, but at the time, with the awkwardness of youth and the fact that I was with this boy’s parents, people I hardly knew, I just wanted the ground to swallow me up.
The music ended with a clash of cymbals and the belly dancer gave one final shake, took a bow and then disappeared back through the curtain leaving a roomful of people lost for words. I didn’t know where to look. We retrieved my boyfriend’s glasses and he brushed his hair back into place as the waiter, wearing a broad smile, arrived with our food. “You like, yes?” he said to my boyfriend as he nudged him with his elbow. Before we could say anything, my boyfriend’s father chipped in “Oh yes, marvellous!” and his mother nodded enthusiastically.
I picked up my knife and fork and quickly began to eat, determined to wipe the whole awful episode from my memory. A general hum of conversation began again across the restaurant. “Have you booked anywhere nice to go on holiday this year?” my boyfriend asked his parents, desperate to move the conversation onto safer ground.
We all chatted amiably for half an hour as we ate our meal, managing to avoid talking about the “entertainment”. I surreptitiously checked my watch wondering how long we would have to stay before making our excuses and leaving. Just then, horror of horrors, bouzouki music started up from the speakers and I looked fearfully at the curtain wondering if the belly dancer was back for a second show. But this time, two men appeared with raised arms and a shout of something in Greek, I assume the equivalent of “Olé”.
They were wearing traditional Greek dress, think Greek soldiers: knee length white overshirt with wide sleeves and pleated skirt, waistcoat and fez-like hat, white tights, tasselled garter around the knees and pom-poms on their shoes. They stood side by side, rested their inner arms across each other’s shoulders and launched into the forwards-back, side to side, lunge-forward dance we all know from the movie Zorba The Greek. Harmless enough, but I sensed it wasn’t going to stop there. I realised the waiters were starting to move around the restaurant encouraging diners to join the dancers on the floor.
This was the final straw. I was definitely not up for audience participation. I ripped my napkin off my knee, got to my feet and, swiftly leaving the table, turned back and said to my boyfriend “I’ll be in the toilets – come and get me when its over!” As I locked the cubicle door behind me with a sigh of relief, I could hear the bouzouki music beginning to speed up and knew I’d made the right decision.
Would I do the same thing now? I don’t think so. That’s another great thing about getting older. I don’t take myself as seriously or care so much what people think of me. I’d probably say “To hell with it” and get up and have a laugh. My 24 year old daughters would be the ones hiding in the toilets. Having said that, I think on balance that, when I go to a restaurant I’d prefer to just eat.
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Absolutely totally hilarious story and really well told, I could feel my own toes curling as I read it!
What a delightful funny read. Thank you that really brightened up my Sunday x