the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

A story of nickolai and...me

In the summer of 2011, I was assigned to NATO in Izmir, Turkey. Operation Unified Protector (OUP) had kicked off for us that April. I'd just arrived in Izmir on 8 March 2011, so it's completely fair to say that when my NATO compatriots began “leaning forward”*, I had just found an apartment to move into. Nothing more. I'd had no battle staff training, other than the initial “death by PowerPoint” initiation course, and I knew little of my job. But international events have no respect for personal schedules, do they?

* Understanding that the United Nations was about to hand the operation off to us, we stood up our own operation early, in the Cold War underground hardened facility in the foothills outside of Izmir known as DISKO HIT. (You can't make this shit up.)

So I ended up in DISKO HIT doing 12-hour shifts, learning the ropes, before Odyssey Dawn ended. When Lt Gen Jodice relocated the operation—which good reason, you ask me—to Ferrara, Italy, I volunteered to follow it, to stay directly involved. I was slated to leave at the end of May, I think, then I broke and twisted my ankle. Thus, I didn't get to Ferrara until the end of June.

Thanks to rank (and manpower rules, I think), I ended up being the branch chief for A6 (communications) while I was there. Everyone who worked “for” me was far better versed in comm than I was, as I didn't have a bachelor's degree in it and I'd spent the last 4.5 years in academia teaching and learning English literature. My crew, however, were well trained, very professional, and had a great attitude. For my part, I listened to them and did anything I could to support them and protect them from outside bullshit, and I reported their progress. Apparently, this was just the sort of leadership they needed. All in all, we had a very good working relationship and while they may have had misgivings concerning my qualifications for the job, it all worked out well (and we're still friends now, which suggests to me that I gave them what they needed but nothing more).

The shifts were long. Everyone was initially required to work the full 10-hour shifts or something like that. After the first couple of weeks, I began to question why we all had to be there on the weekends. I understand why some shops needed 24/7 surveillance, but comm? Even if something came up, they could either phone us and send a van to pick us up,* or...we couldn't do anything about it until Monday, anyway.

* We weren't allowed rental cars. Not my crew, anyhow. We had to catch the van that left from the side of the castle in the city center every morning and return there, 12 hours later, every evening.

The reason we couldn't do anything about it was that we were largely at the mercy of the Italian comm troops, who worked Monday through Friday. OK. That's a generous assessment. In truth, they worked from about 0900 to 1100, when they needed a long lunch, then from 1330 to about 1500.

No, I'm not anti-Italian. I have some amazing friends for life who are Italian, and I post what I just did knowing they will not disown me. The Italians I worked with were not only smart and funny (which are prerequisites to worthy friendships, in my view), but dedicated workers who knew their stuff. They were polite, and always had time for a cappuccino.*

* I'd never tasted a cappuccino until I was in Ferrara. Now, all other attempts at cappuccino just...aren't the same. I suspect you understand.

So anyway...after the first couple of weeks, I asked our division chief if my shop could go to minimal manning on the weekends. He is a terrific man, but I think he didn't fully understand the situation yet. He gave me the sort of answer that suggested he needed time to think about it.

So I worked out a schedule with my men (yeah...I was the lone female) so we could work rotating weekends off. Those who didn't have weekends off would get time off on week days to compensate. My weekends were all off because I had to be there on weekdays for meetings and such. I figured it was easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission.

It worked. :) One of my men encountered our legal adviser--an American O6--on the weekend who bitched and complained that we weren't manning our shop 24/7. I told them that she knew me and where to find me if she wanted to follow the chain of command, but I never heard a peep from her. 

But really? Let's think about this. If you're in a search and rescue position, you need to be manned and ready 24/7. At the same time, you get the sweetest medals and faster and surer promotion, so I figure it's all fair in the end.

So I implemented my change of work schedule, totally prepared to stand in front of my division chief, explain why, and take the heat...but it never came down to that. He accepted that we didn't fully man the shop on the weekends, and life went on. And hey...my crew (a Greek, a Norwegian, a Turk, and an American) got the chance to do their laundry and see Italy. Can't beat that with a stick.

So after I'd been there for about three weeks, I decided to visit a restaurant.

Keep in mind that I was staying in a bed and breakfast in the town center. I didn't have a room at one of the local hotels. My pad was protected from all comers via the locked front door to the courtyard AND the locked door to the apartment where the pads were AND my own door. I loved this arrangement. Virtually no one could disturb me on my day off.

Anyhow. Because I'd booked with a bed and breakfast (Il Bagattino), they'd even come out to pick me up from the airport, a full 1.5 hour drive from Ferrara. On the way back, I'd asked the owner if she could recommend any particular dishes or places to eat in town, as I was all about experiencing the local culture.

As it turns out, she and her husband had created a restaurant called Il Bagattino, and built the bed and breakfast from that, then sold the restaurant. And the local dish was pumpkin in ravioli, either in butter with herbs or in a tomato sauce.

Good to know. :)

As mentioned, I wasn't free to visit a restaurant (at the time of my choosing) until about three weeks after I arrived. I went to Il Bagattino first.

It was about 3 in the afternoon. I wasn't sure the place was open. I sat under the shade outside. Nickolai was my waiter.

I'd been walking around Ferrara with my iPod, listening to the Alan Parson's Project (Eve, I think). I felt mellow and thoughtful and...hungry. I'm sure I looked like sweaty hell. Nickolai asked what I'd like.

I said, “I would like a wine. Red. It needs to have some character, some spice. Not overpowering, but full.” I was looking at the wine list as I spoke, and he thought for a moment, then said, “I have just the thing.”

I said, “Which one?” He reached out and closed my wine list, laid it on the table, and said, “It isn't on there.”

What he brought was Lacryma Christi. That is, Christ's Tears. The grapes are grown on the slopes of Vesuvius, although I didn't know that at the time. I didn't ask the price, either. There is reason for this.

As an American, I was compensated well for this TDY, and largely due to my inability to do anything more than work and sleep, I spent almost none of it.

I did know, however, that the wine was fantastic. He'd read my request admirably and delivered a damn good bottle of vino. After he brought it and I approved, he asked what I'd like for the meal. I told him that I'd been told about their local specialty, the pumpkin ravioli. He said he wouldn't think of bringing me such a dish with that bottle of wine, and...he recommended a prime rib and a chocolate dessert. I told him I don't do dessert, normally. I simply don't have the sweet tooth. He smiled, nodded, and left.

I had the prime rib (which was fantastic), sipping my wine and enjoying my tunes. Then he brought a chocolate dessert which I hadn't requested but which was...well, perfect.

All in all, I think I was there for about three hours, sipping my bottle of wine, listening to my music, and eating amazing food. And Nickolai and I chatted.

His English was flawless. He told me how he'd waited tables as a career. He'd been at this almost 30 years (although he still looked young and quite handsome). He pointed out that America doesn't have professional waiters; ours are waiters while they finish college. In his world, though, waiting tables is a respected career; they receive a salary they can live comfortably on. People expect him to understand their tastes and the wines, to deliver them a perfect dining experience. And over time, he'd learned to do just that.

I can attest.

I perhaps should add that I did my time as a waitress, and I reward good service handsomely.

I think I went back there four times before I left. By my second visit, he greeted me with the double kiss and a hug. By my last visit, I asked for Nickolai's section and when he appeared, I asked him to tell me what my dinner experience would be.

Oh. My. God. Y'all.

He suggested an “old” bottle of wine to start. I asked him to define “old,” and he said, “It was bottled in 2002.” I pointed out that that was just 9 years old; he pointed out that it had been crated five years before it was bottled. But then he thought a bit, and pointed to an old bottle ensconced in a glass case along the wall. How did I feel about that bottle, the vintage of which had been grown in the 80s? I looked at it for a long moment, then said, “Sure. Why not?”

I figured: At least once in my life, I want to taste a wine that is truly aged, and aged right. At this moment, I can afford it. DO THIS THING.

This bottle, unlike the others, he brought forth with a decanter and a candle. Thanks to the vintage, it needed a little something extra to “open it up.” He poured it carefully, slowly, into the decanter at my table, using the flame of the candle to help open the wine. As he decanted, I told him what I was listening to as I enjoyed my meal, as I believe a good meal should satisfy all the senses. I was listening to soft classical that day. I gave him a brief listen, then he told me that when he goes home after work, he enjoys a taste of cognac while listening to Mozart.

The wine was...well. It was rather amazing (as one would hope). He brought me chunks of Parmesan to assist the wine, smoked salmon with steamed asparagus, then sliced pineapple marinated in lemoncello, a vodka drink impregnated with lemon. The entire experience, wherein I shamelessly threw myself at his culinary mercy, was unspeakably perfect.

I told him I wouldn't see him again for a while. This was my last visit until I returned in another two months (as was the plan). But I wanted him to know how much his personal touch had transformed my experience in Ferrara. I hugged him before I left and said thank you...for everything. For making my experience in Ferrara so amazing, for sharing my delight in hedonistic pleasures, for just being himself.

The bill was phenomenal, as one might expect. I paid it with my credit card, then left forty euro in cash on the table for him.

The credit card bill never cleared my account.

Someday, I'll go back. With any luck, he's still there, and with a little more luck, my wife and I can treat him to some semblance of what he showed me.

d