The restaurant was part of a long, yellow terrace with a wooden sign indicating which door, of many, was the right one. Small signs make me feel pleased with myself; I haven’t simply found the right door, I have discovered it, which, on this occasion, was not just self-important, but nonsense, because I was with a friend, Irene, who goes there all the time.
We were in San Martino Alfieri, a small town near Asti in Piedmont, and the words on the wood read “Ristorante Concordia”. Its front opens into a narrow hall and three options: a steep staircase up and doorways to the left and right. We were directed left into a room with grey-and-white speckled tiles, wood panels, lace-trimmed curtains over the windows, a wood dresser with condiments, and 12 tables, each with a white cloth, napkins, cutlery, heavy tumblers and short-stemmed, standard wine glasses, which don’t seem so standard any more.
