Why is Rome a shithole? It only takes one ...

Warning: The scenes described and language used in this blog-post are very graphic and inappropriate to some people. If you don’t like detailed stories about Landis family throw-downs with greedy restaurant owners, then skip this post. If you want to hear the story of why I have a less than favorable opinion of Rome, then please read on.

Mom, Dad, and I left St. Peter’s about noon on Saturday to go look for lunch. We opted to walk down a quaint looking street near the Vatican that had a bunch of touristy looking cafes and restaurants. Can’t go wrong being this close to one of the holiest places in the world, right? Ummm, wrong. We walked by a restaurant called La Romanella on the left side of the road near the street corner. My mom glanced at the menu and my dad at the door to see if they took credit cards. The restaurant owner, a fat Italian man with a pig-ish looking face roped us in by saying he took credit cards. He pulled up chairs around the table near the door and gave us menus. The prices were reasonable, and we settled in for what we thought would be a decent Italian lunch. I voiced my opinion as we were sitting down that I didn’t like being roped into restaurants like this guy did to us. I like to choose on my own volition, but I didn’t think anything of it until later.

My Mom asked the man questions about some of the pasta dishes, and we all ordered. My dad wanted spaghetti bolognese, my mom a half order of carbonara, and me with the veal. My dad ordered a beer and me a glass of the house wine. My mom asked for still water. The waiter asked me “Do you want salad or chips with that?” Chips. The waiter comes out with drinks: an extra large beer for dad, two bottles of water for mom, and a half bottle of wine for me. OK. Mom helped me with the wine as Dad nursed the beer. After serving us drinks the waiter leaned out the door of the restaurant to our table and said “Brushcetta? Yes.” And turned around before I could say no. They came out with three plates with one piece of bread on each. The bread was decent, and I was happy they split the order for all three of us, given that the waiter was only speaking to me. The food came out, and my dad had spaghetti with tomato sauce and a plate of meatballs on the side. My mom had about a third of an order of pasta and me two thin slabs of veal with a plate of about 12 french fries. The food was decent, the wine terrible. We ask for the check in Italian as I saw Emily and Kristin walking back up the road.

As I was talking with them about plans Mom received the bill in a state of schock: 90 Euros for a three person lunch. 5 Euro’s for EACH of the pieces of bruschetta we didn’t order. 5 Euro for the fries that were supposed to come with the meal. 15 Euro for the bottle of shitty house wine. 2 Euro for bread that we never ordered. 9 euro for the meatball plate that my dad didn’t order. Ten euro charge for a full order of carbonara even though Mom received less than half. Knowing my Mom and Dad, I knew we were not paying 90 euro for this meal, so I told Emily and Kristin to disappear.

This was about to get ugly. Mom asked the blonde waitress about the bill as she cleaned up our table, and she gave us an incredulous look and kept cleaning. My mom asked again, and then the woman snapped “It’s food” and went about her business. My mom said “I know it’s food, but we didn’t order this and we need it taken off our bill.” Blond bitch responds in Italian “Mangiare. It’s food” Trying to say that we ate the food and were obliged to pay for it. I went up to the fatass that brought us into the place and asked him about the bill in a respectful tone. He pointed to the blonde bitch who had walked inside and said to talk to her. I knew shit was going down at this point, so I grabbed the Kronenberg glass on our table and pocketed it. If the Landises are going to get screwed, I’m at least walking out with a pub glass. We went inside to the cash register to argue some more. Inside there was a Mexican looking dude talking to the blonde bitch, so we went up to him to have our bill changed. My mom did the math about what we theoretically had to pay for, slicing our bill down to 68.50 – still a ripoff. We wrote the total on the bill and handed it to the Mexican dude.

As we were approaching the Mexican dude, another group of about 10 young French people came in to argue about their bill. They had the same problem about being charged for stuff they didn’t order. When we realized what the other group was there for, all of us knew we were being scammed. It’s one of those things you read about in tour books that you don’t think will happen to you, and then it happens. When the French people rolled up, I knew that we were not going to leave until we got 68.50 for our bill. My mom asks the Mexican dude and Blonde Bitch “Why are you cheating us?” as the French people argued their bill. The Mexican dude, who had been silent this whole time, finally beings arguing with the French about their bill, saying that they ate the food that was brought to the table, so they had to pay for it. One person explained to us that in France (as in the United States) when the waiter brings something to your table that was not ordered (such as chips, water, and bread) it is a service from the restaurant. Imagine being charged for bread at bob evans on top of a charge for filling up your glass of water on top of a 17 percent gratuity. I interjected in the French argument to defend the French dudes, saying that the fact they ate the food doesn’t matter, it matters that they didn’t order the food and didn’t want the food. I spoke to the Mexican dude in a very arrogant way, talking to him like he was a two year old.

My blood is BOILING at this point. Most people know I don’t like to be fucked around with. Well, I get that from my parents. Three Landises and 10 French people being taken to the cleaners by a fat fuck I-ti and his 50 year old boob-job hair dyed partner. Nuh-uh. Things escalate and I ask the French guys if we should call the police, and they think it’s the good idea. I tell Blonde bitch and Mexican that we are going to call the police and if they want that to happen. The Mexican shrugs and says sure. I had to keep myself from pulling the jugular out of his neck the way he responded so nonchalantly, as if they scam people like this on a regular basis (if you read the tripadvisor reviews for this restaurant, they scam people on a regular basis). I reach in the pocket for my phone as I ask the blond bitch to dial the police for us. All of a sudden, blonde bitch speaks perfect English when the po-po get mentioned. She says “Oh you want to call the police?” and walks outside to retrieve fat fuck. Mexican dude looks at our bill and writes 78 on the receipt and circles it. Not good enough. My dad looks at him and says “68.50.”

Anticipating a fight with the receipt, my mom and I copied down everything onto a piece of paper in case they tried to take the receipt from us. The French group argued their bill some more, and the fat man finally took off the bread they didn’t order or eat and knocked their bill down to like 200 Euro. I told the French guys to pay in cash so they would not have their credit card information. Mom, Dad, and I pulled together all of our cash, 70 euro, so we would not have to give them credit. The French settled up their bill with the fat man, and the Mexican turned back to us. My dad pointed to the 68.50 number we had written on the bill and said “that’s it” as we slammed the money on the counter. Blond Bitch realizes that’s as much as she is getting out of us and sweeps up the cash from the counter and says “fine. GO” She sweeps her hands at us like we are flies and motions us out of the restaurant and says something towards my dad in rapid Italian. I don’t know what she said, but we both knew it was an insult. My dad turns around and whips out his credit card and says “no no no” and wags his finger. I don’t know if they were intelligent enough to realize my Dad’s threat that he would call the credit card companies to have them pull service from the restaurant. I grab my Dad before he gets too excited and flip a big middle finger to the blonde as we leave the doors.

She followed me out of the door and called me a Dick in a heavy accent. I mimicked her accent and spat back whatever she said to me. My dad and the French guys came out of the restaurant and starting yelling to tourists nearby not to eat at this restaurant because the fat man is a cheater. I give the fatass another middle finger as we walked up to the street corner. At this point my hands are shaking with rage and the entire street, which is lined with restaurants with people eating outside, is silent and watching the shouting match take place. We meet up with the French people to vent a lot of steam. They agreed they would call the credit card companies as well. I saw the fat ass watching us talk, so I walked back down the street and took a picture of him as blatantly as I could just to piss him off. Originally he tried to cover his face with a menu, and then he put his hands around his crotch in a “suck it” pose. I screamed down the street “Whip em out, mother fucker. Let me see em!” four or five times. I kept egging him on to follow through with his veiled threat, but he wimped out and turned away. Another middle finger and I turned around to walk back up the road.

We said goodbye to the French and walked around for about thirty minutes to cool our jets, not really paying attention to where we were going. We were all silent with rage, replaying the scene in our minds. It was our fault we got taken to the cleaners, as we were stupid enough to believe that this man was a decent person, and that the Romans in general were welcoming people. After this moment I started seeing the bad in everyone and everything in Rome. Everywhere you walk there is another scam artist trying to take your money. There were very few people who were welcoming to me in Rome. They saw me as a tourist with cash in my wallet that rightfully belonged to them, and they just had to trick me into giving it up. Even the “nice” people are nice because of the euros in your bank account. I was afrid to speak Italian or any language to anyone local after that, which made the rest of the weekend pretty anticlimactic. We tubed to the coliseum and sat there for about an hour, just watching people walk by. Coleen, Krisitn, and Emily were supposed to show up, but none of them did. I wandered for about 40 minutes looking for a free toilette and finally found one. We bought paninis and watched the sunset over the coliseum from the domus aerea park across the road, which would have been a very pretty sight under different circumstances.