An Italian friend of mine was recently at a pizzeria in Naples and caught the following scene …  

The restaurant owner, a stocky, slightly-above-middle-aged man from Naples took the bill to a table of about 20 Americans.  

“Can you divide the check for us?” the American spokesman asks.  

The owner whips out a calculator, enters the total amount and counts the heads at the table. “It is ‘X-amount’ per person,” he says.

“No,” the American insists. “Not like that.” He motions around the table.   “Each person needs his own bill.”  

The pizzaiolo is agitated. “I can’t do that,” he says. “I don’t remember what each person ate.”  

A heated exchange ensues between the pizzaiolo and the American tourist, with the American ending his tirade with, “Fine. I’ll call the police.”  

The restaurant owner turns his back on the table, raises both hands above his head and swings around like a batter wildly swinging at a fast-pitched ball. “YOU CALL THE POLICE,” he screams as knocks the American tourist to the floor.  

At this point in the story, my friend laughs and picks up his beer, clearly signaling the story’s end.  

“But wait,” I told him. “What happened next?”

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  • Cherrye Moore

    Cherrye Moore grew up in rural Southeast Texas in the heart of the Big Thicket. She began writing at an early age and became a …

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