mummy porn

Last night I ate at a Italian establishment, D.O.C. (Denominazione di origine controllata, or Controlled origin denomination to the uninitiated). D.O.C. prides itself on its authenticity. Such is the authenticity that if you deign to ask if your chestnut fed Puglian air dried Prosciutto be placed on the side of the pizza instead of on top you will receive a polite yet mildly sardonic answer from one of the devilishly handsome real-life-genuine-authentic-Italian waiters with beautifully thick yet comprehendible accents to the tune of...'the chef does not change the menu'. One might think that the food would be the 'hero' in Masterchef speak, of this occasion, but no, it is the waitstaff who steal the show. I walked in, my parents, husband and child in tow, and was literally bowled over by running screaming children. Why were there so many children there? Because its mummy porn. A bit like real-estate.com. A restaurant filled with mothers and children, not a husband in sight, giant balloon sized wine glasses filled with mummy medicine cloaking the mummy eyes with what I like to refer to as 'mummy porn'. These young waiters, most likely in their early to mid twenties, all saunter around the room with the ease and confidence of male models, like Christopher Deane skating around the ice-rink, but way sexier. My family has been to Italy on a number of occasions so we dropped the odd 'Grazie', to which they politely respond the obligatory, 'prego'. The icing on the proverbial Torta was at the end of the meal when my 64-year-old mother said to the waiter, with a Rose induced enthusiasm...'Bellisimo', to which our friendly-sexy waiter replied...'are you talking about me?', to which I responded, 'most certainly'. We all laughed. Then our friendly-sexy waiter proceeded to correct her pronunciation so as the word referred to the food not the man. As we were leaving the second round of women flocked through the door, sans men or children, dressed up and ready for an Italian injection of gastronomic delights. I informed the waiter that the first time my mother went to Italy she was 24, hence her confusion of the pronunciation of the word. Second round lady D.O.C. diners...I suggest you mispronounce your Italian words too.