Pandas in Venice

Food & Travel writing by Penelope Wolf

         You pass something called the Panda restaurant, and your sister and you automatically assume that it’s Chinese food. Chinese food in Venice, Italy, how about that? Your Italian friend would be very disappointed if you got Chinese food instead of pasta. Lucca is the owner of the Airbnb, he helps you park and you’re half asleep when you get out of the car, but you see his face and suddenly you’re wide awake. There’s something about a guy with an accent, and you should definitely find some Italian guy to impulsively marry so that you can eat pasta every day and not worry about your loans. They can’t touch you if you’re in a foreign country! No, but literally. You tried going to Sallie Mae to figure something out with your finances and the site literally wouldn’t work. It’s a sign. Lucca tells you how to get into the city, and your dad asks more questions, while you and your sister call dibs on which side of the bed you guys are getting. Lucca recommends you go to the Panda restaurant; it’s not Chinese food, but authentic family-owned restaurant. Your family figures: why the hell not?

         You’re greeted by an old man, who realizes you guys don’t speak Italian, and a younger woman comes out. She doesn’t speak much English either, but at least she can understand what you want. The menu of this restaurant changes every day, based on what local markets are selling – and despite your sister being the pickiest eater in the whole damn world, you decide to … try a bit of everything. Or at least, that’s what you guys think you just ordered? In all honesty, you have no idea what you just ordered. Glances are exchanged across the table. Maybe you guys are in trouble, but really, it’s no big deal: your dad and you are like, really good at eating.

         The first round is a salad. Easy. Your dad and you love salad. Your sister would rather die than put something green in her mouth. Europe’s salads are kinda off, their version of dressing is putting olive oil and vinegar on the table and calling it a day. It still smacks, though. Your dad thinks he sees a cat in the garden, but he’s also legally blind in one eye, so you take that as a grain of salt. Dishes keep coming, the more they come the gigglier your sister and you get. Holy moly. Is this dish number six? You look at your dad for a moment, this is gonna be expensive as hell. Another dish comes. Another. Another. And another. Honestly, you lose count after dish nine. What’s the point? Your sister and you can’t stop laughing, and your dad joins in (even though he told you guys to stop laughing about 10 minutes ago, you don’t want the waitress to think you’re making fun of her!) because there’s so much food and it just keeps coming. There’s only three of you! The waitress brings out shots for all three of you. Creamy mint green shots and you think it’s alcoholic (it definitely is). Your sister and you are lactose intolerant. And she’s never taken a shot in front of your dad. It’s fine, though. She’s 18. You guys take it anyways. You still can’t stop laughing. The waitress brings out gummies and cookies. You wonder how people in Italy are so skinny. At this point, the whole restaurant is looking at the three of you. But you’re laughing and you’re happy and you’re full and the waitress gives you a little pocket mirror and you think: it can’t get any better than this.

          The whole meal is only 70 euros. For more than nine dishes. More. Than. Nine.