Closing Time at the Pizzeria

Dear diary. There is a particular sound a pizzeria makes when it is about to close.

It is the sound of a chair being lifted and turned upside down onto a table. Wooden legs pointing at the ceiling. Then another one. Then another. It is not an unfriendly sound. It is more like a lullaby for furniture. And when I hear it, I always know I have about ten more minutes before someone very politely suggests I go home.

Tonight I was at my favourite place, the little pizzeria at the bottom of the hill with the mural of clouds on the back wall. I won’t tell you exactly where it is. Some places should stay a little bit secret, so they keep their magic.

The booth by the mural

I always sit in the same booth, the red one by the back wall. The mural there was painted years ago by the owner’s cousin, or so the story goes, and it shows a sky full of pink and peach clouds over a little town by the sea. If you look closely, there is a tiny boat in one corner and a lighthouse that someone forgot to finish. I like the unfinished lighthouse the most. It makes the whole painting feel like it is still happening.

I had arrived late, as usual, after a long walk through the old town. I ordered a margherita, because when something is perfect you don’t need to improve it. The base was blistered at the edges, soft in the middle, and the basil leaves were placed on top like someone had thought carefully about each one.

I ate it slowly. I always eat slowly. A pizza is a conversation, not a race.

The chairs go up

By the time I finished my last bite, the room had emptied around me. A couple at the window table had gone. The family with the birthday candle had gone. The radio in the kitchen had switched from cheerful songs to the quiet late-night ones.

And then the chairs started going up.

The owner is a tall man with flour on his forearms and a moustache that seems to have its own opinions. He moved through the room slowly, flipping chairs onto tables, wiping each surface with a cloth. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t need to. We have done this dance many times.

I leaned back into the booth. The cushion sighed. My jacket sighed. My eyes, I am a little embarrassed to say, began to close.

The best moments don’t end when the clock says so. They end when you finally let them go. And I am never in a hurry to let them go.

One more slice

I don’t know how long I dozed. Maybe a minute. Maybe twenty. When I opened my eyes, the room was dim, only the lights above the counter still glowing, and the owner was standing next to my booth holding a plate.

On the plate was one slice. Still warm. A little crispy at the edge.

“Last one from the tray,” he said. “Shame to waste it.”

I have heard him say this exact sentence perhaps fifteen times. I am fairly sure there is always a last one from the tray, and I am fairly sure it is never really an accident. But I would never say so. Some kindnesses work best when everyone pretends they are not kindnesses at all.

He sat down opposite me, the first time I had ever seen him sit, and we talked. About the mural. About the cousin, who apparently now paints boats in a harbour somewhere far away. About how the dough has to rest for a long time before it is ready, and how you can’t hurry it no matter how busy the evening gets.

“Good dough is patient,” he said. “Like you.”

I decided to take that as a compliment.

Things I noticed after closing time

A pizzeria after closing is a different place from a pizzeria during dinner. If you are lucky enough to stay a little longer, here is what you might notice:

• The oven keeps glowing long after the last pizza. It ticks and crackles as it cools, like it is telling stories to itself.
• The mural looks different in low light. The pink clouds turn lilac. The sea turns navy. The unfinished lighthouse almost looks lit.
• The staff relax. Aprons come off. Someone hums. Someone eats the crusts nobody wanted.
• Time slows down. There is nowhere left to rush to, so nobody rushes.

Walking home

When I finally stood up, he walked me to the door and unlocked it for me. Outside, the street was empty and the air was cool, and the sky over the rooftops had a few soft pink clouds that looked almost exactly like the ones on the mural. I stood there for a moment wondering which had come first.

“Same time next week?” he asked.

“Maybe a little later,” I said.

He laughed and turned the sign on the door from one side to the other, and I walked home up the hill with my wings in my jacket pockets and a very full, very happy feeling inside.

I know not everyone has a pizzeria like mine. But I believe most cities have one somewhere, a small place where the owner knows your order and doesn’t mind if you stay. If you are still searching for yours, I wrote down a few ideas in One More Slice: Late-Night Food in Europe, and if you have ever wondered why your margherita looks different from city to city, this little guide to pizza styles might help.

Be kind to the people stacking the chairs. Tip them in smiles, and in staying out of the way of the mop.

And if they offer you one more slice, say yes. — P.