FLAKES OF PAINT, dry and decades old, float lazily down through the morning sunshine in Via Vicenza. Shed by the wooden shutters of my room in the Italian pensione. Shutters that squeak in resistance as I push them open onto the past. Leaning out, I watch their graceful descent to the street below.
On the pavement stands Abdul in his doorway opposite, half hidden by the faded yellow awning of his small business. An Egyptian migrant in Rome, now running a pizzeria. His white apron is tied double around the girth of an expanding waistline. A faint wisp of cigarette smoke tells me he’s on a break. Trays laden with today’s pizzas have already entered the wood-fired oven and will soon be brought out for the first rush of hungry clienti.
Abdul has heard the squeaking and glances upwards. He knows me – a little. I’ve migrated here for work too and I’m often a late night customer at his pizzeria when my teaching is done. His establishment is not a sit-down restaurant but a counter service for pizza a taglio, takeaway pizza, sold by the slice. When I first moved into the neighbourhood with minimal Italian, Abdul and I negotiated the size of my slice with our hands:
‘Più grande?’ (Bigger?) he would ask, spreading his palms.
‘No, un po’ più piccolo,’ (No, a little smaller,) I move my hands closer together.
‘Così?’ (Like this?) the negotiation continues. ‘Sì. Perfetto. Grazie.’ (Yes. Perfect. Thank you.)
His Italian was better than mine. But now my fluency has improved and Abdul has become more inquisitive, asking more difficult questions. I guard my privacy as best I can here. I’ve good reason to. I don’t want to become grist for the gossip mill. Not much escapes the pettegole; prying locals who exchange their news morsels with Abdul.
What Abdul has learned is largely from my bulging briefcase. Searching through papers and books for my wallet, I regularly spill out its contents.
‘Ah, Lei è insegnante di inglese!’ (Ah, so you’re an English teacher!) he exclaims triumphantly one evening.
He also knows my pizza ordering habits. His English customer invariably chooses con patates – the one with potato topping. Admittedly, not the choice of a true pizza gourmet but it is Abdul’s signature dish: thin slices of warm potato on a pizza base, sprinkled with herbs and drizzled in olive oil. The sweet scent of rosemary and Parmigiano-Reggiano accompanies me as I bear my portion back to my apartment. Even if it’s pizza alla egiziana (Pizza Egyptian style), it’s excellent and the ultimate comfort food in my book.
One evening Abdul pushes the boundaries of cross-cultural politeness as he hands me my pizza slice. In Italy there are few questions that are off limits. Nor for Egyptians it seems. He asks me if I am married. Caught off guard, I blink and concentrate on not dropping my potato pizza. I am from a more reserved culture. So I deflect it, throwing the question back at him. That was unwise. Abdul places his large dough-encrusted hands on the counter and sighs. I drop my briefcase, take a warm mouthful of herb-sprinkled potato and listen as he tells me his story.
Yes, he’s married. But his wife and three children are still in Egypt, living in a small town beside the Nile somewhere south of Cairo. He left and came to Rome in search of work. There were few opportunities at home. His first job – as a bar runner – delivering hot coffees to nearby offices; then, a kitchen help in a pizzeria, working his way up. There he watched and learned the art of pizza-making. Until another break – renting this small space for his own oven and takeaway counter. He sends money back to Egypt regularly but saves the rest; there have been no trips home over the years. There is silence for a moment while we both contemplate the counter between us.
Abdul raises his eyes to meet mine. One day soon he hopes to have saved enough to return home, His dream – to open an Egyptian pizzeria on the banks of the Nile, catering to the passing minibuses crammed with foreign tourists bound for the temples of Luxor and Karnak.
That voice, filled with homesickness and hope, was a ghost from the past. It still sounds in my ears today as I revisit this city where I spent three years of my younger life. Abdul and the faded yellow awning of his pizzeria are long gone. Now a different kind of eatery stands in its place – a small Grill Italiano.
Abdul was still slicing up and serving his potato pizza when I decided to pack my bags and leave Italy to return home. It was an easy decision for me. I wasn’t a migrant by force of circumstance. I simply moved on to a new teaching assignment. There was no time to stop by and say Arriverderci to Abdul. Now the pizza a taglio sign is gone. I hope he saved enough to go back and chase his dream beside the Nile. The neo-rustic Grill Italiano doesn’t look very appealing and I feel a pang of regret. Potato pizza Egyptian style will not be on the menu.
Abdul has heard the squeaking and glances upwards. He knows me – a little. I’ve migrated here for work too and I’m often a late night customer at his pizzeria when my teaching is done. His establishment is not a sit-down restaurant but a counter service for pizza a taglio, takeaway pizza, sold by the slice. When I first moved into the neighbourhood with minimal Italian, Abdul and I negotiated the size of my slice with our hands:
‘Più grande?’ (Bigger?) he would ask, spreading his palms.
‘No, un po’ più piccolo,’ (No, a little smaller,) I move my hands closer together.
‘Così?’ (Like this?) the negotiation continues. ‘Sì. Perfetto. Grazie.’ (Yes. Perfect. Thank you.)
His Italian was better than mine. But now my fluency has improved and Abdul has become more inquisitive, asking more difficult questions. I guard my privacy as best I can here. I’ve good reason to. I don’t want to become grist for the gossip mill. Not much escapes the pettegole; prying locals who exchange their news morsels with Abdul.
What Abdul has learned is largely from my bulging briefcase. Searching through papers and books for my wallet, I regularly spill out its contents.
‘Ah, Lei è insegnante di inglese!’ (Ah, so you’re an English teacher!) he exclaims triumphantly one evening.
He also knows my pizza ordering habits. His English customer invariably chooses con patates – the one with potato topping. Admittedly, not the choice of a true pizza gourmet but it is Abdul’s signature dish: thin slices of warm potato on a pizza base, sprinkled with herbs and drizzled in olive oil. The sweet scent of rosemary and Parmigiano-Reggiano accompanies me as I bear my portion back to my apartment. Even if it’s pizza alla egiziana (Pizza Egyptian style), it’s excellent and the ultimate comfort food in my book.
One evening Abdul pushes the boundaries of cross-cultural politeness as he hands me my pizza slice. In Italy there are few questions that are off limits. Nor for Egyptians it seems. He asks me if I am married. Caught off guard, I blink and concentrate on not dropping my potato pizza. I am from a more reserved culture. So I deflect it, throwing the question back at him. That was unwise. Abdul places his large dough-encrusted hands on the counter and sighs. I drop my briefcase, take a warm mouthful of herb-sprinkled potato and listen as he tells me his story.
Yes, he’s married. But his wife and three children are still in Egypt, living in a small town beside the Nile somewhere south of Cairo. He left and came to Rome in search of work. There were few opportunities at home. His first job – as a bar runner – delivering hot coffees to nearby offices; then, a kitchen help in a pizzeria, working his way up. There he watched and learned the art of pizza-making. Until another break – renting this small space for his own oven and takeaway counter. He sends money back to Egypt regularly but saves the rest; there have been no trips home over the years. There is silence for a moment while we both contemplate the counter between us.
Abdul raises his eyes to meet mine. One day soon he hopes to have saved enough to return home, His dream – to open an Egyptian pizzeria on the banks of the Nile, catering to the passing minibuses crammed with foreign tourists bound for the temples of Luxor and Karnak.
That voice, filled with homesickness and hope, was a ghost from the past. It still sounds in my ears today as I revisit this city where I spent three years of my younger life. Abdul and the faded yellow awning of his pizzeria are long gone. Now a different kind of eatery stands in its place – a small Grill Italiano.
Abdul was still slicing up and serving his potato pizza when I decided to pack my bags and leave Italy to return home. It was an easy decision for me. I wasn’t a migrant by force of circumstance. I simply moved on to a new teaching assignment. There was no time to stop by and say Arriverderci to Abdul. Now the pizza a taglio sign is gone. I hope he saved enough to go back and chase his dream beside the Nile. The neo-rustic Grill Italiano doesn’t look very appealing and I feel a pang of regret. Potato pizza Egyptian style will not be on the menu.
Julie Watson is a volunteer ESOL teacher of refugees, retired and living in the UK. She has lived, taught and travelled extensively abroad. She is a published writer and her most recent book is Travel Takeaways: Around the World in Forty Tales available via Amazon. Bluesky: julieoniw.bsky.social , Linkedin: juliewatson1/
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