by Philip Wagenaar
(First of two parts)
BARI, Italy, April 14, 1990 — Being exhausted after our long bicycle ride, my wife, Flory, and I decided to have dinner in our hotel’s ristorante (restaurant) rather than go out. Alas, service was slow, the bread was stale and our wine glasses were full of particles, a result of the waiter’s piercing the cork in a less-than-perfect fashion.
After I told the server that the wine was unacceptable, he became very huffy, pushed the...
CONTINUE READING »