The name above the door?! My dream, after a plateful of bolognese on a gorgeous night in January'07, where the moon shone shivers down my spine and the long legged, bronzed beauty at my side gazed expectantly into my baby blues, my dream was to have the most mesmerizing name ever thought of above the door.

Something to reflect the grief one feels, having had the most awful Indian from the place next door, as they slink past the open door of your little ristorante with its shutters flung wide and the crowd shouting to be heard from inside. The smells of garlic and smokey carbanossi simmering through the pores of the plaster exterior and extorting ones nose to the virtues of true Italian fare.

A name to rival your guest list as your Mafiosi neighbours come knocking with pleads of gratuities and fees waived if they can get but a glimpse of the man who drives the Enzo or the wife "with no name" who parks only on the pavement in her little red corvette. Or the rumored publicist who always brings her lover(s) to eat because it is so dark in the back corner where you keep her table free at the hint of her imminent arrival. Of the movie actor who claims fame from some B grade flick he did in 1982. And the scintillating, Versace clad, seamstress that you'd like to some day make your wife!

And the food to render your competition senseless as you leave them spell bound with sauces inspired by only the greatest Italians ever born. Mr Roma (tomato), Miss Marinara (seafood), Mrs Garlic (bolognese to die for), Capitano Pisa (piece of this and a bit of that), Mr Olive (oil of course).

Pizza with crusts you can eat; Multi-layered Lasagne like your mama made - parmasen cheese, homemade pasta sheets and rich beef sauce thats sends your heart racing; Tiramisu with the kick of a mule; Marinara with fresh, real squid and mussels and shrimps and fish and yummy sauce; Gelato in the colours of the rainbow.

Take your pick of the wine to accompany the occasion. Chant the name of your brothers, wifes, neighbours, sisters friend who has big hair and loves to dance, and toast them all, twice if you have to. Three times if you are really delirious. Four times if you left someone out. By closing time the little baskets of Chianti will be hanging in rows behind the bar and the Three Tenors will be scratching away on the Cd player.

And from somewhere a name has to be given. A name that speaks the truth about eating, breathing, dreaming Italian. A name that says it all. Billy Joel sang about "A bottle of red, a bottle of white, all depends upon your appetite...in my little Italian resturant..."

Mamma Mia!

Learn more about this author, Robert Grant.
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