Continuing Jan’s account of our meeting with – The Count:
At this point in the conversation, the Count switched gears and asked, “Would you like coffee?” He then stood, walked over to the door, and called “Marco!” out into the hall. After a pause, he called “Marco!” again. He then spoke quietly to someone in the hallway and then returned to his seat.
David asked a question about the original size of the land purchase and they continued their discussion. After a few minutes, a man tall man in a suit appeared in the doorway with a tray and silver coffee service. The Count stopped his narrative while the man placed the tray on the coffee table. "Gratzi, Marco," he murmured as the man left the room. The Count then picked up his description of the original planting of the vineyards where he had left off.
My husband and the Count chatted on for a while as I continued to look around the room and admire the small pieces around me. After a couple of minutes, I wondered about the coffee. It was just sitting there on the table between us. The Count’s manservant (his manservant…. teehee) didn’t do anything with it and didn’t appear to be coming back.
And then it occurred to me… I am woman.
Hear me roar.
Oh– and the Count seemed to be waiting for me to pour.
Seriously.
I was sitting in a 14th century villa in the Italian countryside with my husband and a Count and they were expecting me to pour their coffee.
After a few calming breaths and a mental gathering of the all the societal morays I had culled from Jane Austin’s novels, I reached out and took the handle of the coffee pot and asked, “Shall I pour?”
The Count waived assent with one hand and continued to talk to David about the outbuildings and when they were added to the original plan.
I sat on the settee with the coffeepot in one hand, picking up the cups and saucers in the other and trying to keep my hands still enough that the china didn’t rattle as I asked at appropriate breaks in the conversation, “How do you like your coffee?”
The Count likes his with a little cream.
Somehow I managed to serve, feeling like I was having tea with the Queen. And feeling incredibly American and incredibly 21st century. And feeling a little bit angry with my feminist self who wouldn’t shut up and stop whispering in my ear, “Why can’t he pour his own damn coffee?”
