Eat Out to Help Out, by Anna van Dyk
When I was little, my family used to frequent an Italian restaurant named “Spiga D’Oro”.
In Italian, this means “The Golden Wheat”. But while this place remains a golden memory to me, it was anything but a golden establishment. It was located on one of Durban’s busiest streets which, more often than not, was where you were more likely to make regrettable, drunken decisions, rather than have the best meal of your life. The doors of the restaurant opened out onto the pavement, and drunk revellers and beggars and hopeful entrepreneurs, peddling wilting roses and other cheap knick knacks, would wander past while you were slurping down your spaghetti. It was loud, and hot, and the tables were often broken and wobbled if you so much as looked at them. But we loved it, and so did everyone else in the city. Often Spiga (as we affectionately used to refer to it) was so busy that you would have to put your name down on a list and be called an hour or two later to be notified that a space had opened up- if you were lucky.
My family was a part of the furniture. My father was the sort of regular I would have hated while I was working at The Restaurant. He was loud, and used to flirt brazenly with the waitresses. If you stayed until the last round of drinks, he would often lead the entire establishment in a rousing chorus of “Volare”, with my godfather- who, incidentally, was the doorman- clapping in time to his drunken melody. But the owners loved him. The mother, Gussi, ran the kitchen, while her husband and two sons charmed every customer who came through the door. They knew our order, and always, always had a table for us. We came to know other regulars by names- although most were already close friends, the Italian community in Durban being so small. On Christmas Eve, before Midnight Mass, it seemed as though every Italian and Portuguese family in our city was there, shovelling mounds of garlic onto the tortellini alla chef (a house favourite) before clambering into our local Catholic church to listen to Father Massimo’s sermon. It was the site of so many birthday celebrations, late night drunken pizzas, early morning coffees, and Sunday night meals, that I could not even try and tally them all.
I think about Spiga a lot. The welcome we received into this restaurant, time and time again, is a big reason why I was drawn to hospitality. It was a humble place, with a simple, unchanging menu, but because of the warm reception we always received, and the unfailingly delicious fare, it came to feel like an extension of home. And I know that my family was not the only one who regarded it with this fondness. When the owner’s son, Lucca, died tragically, nearly the entire city of Durban mourned. The family behind Spiga D’Oro had become our family, too.
Restaurants are special places. They take the warmth and kinship that a lovingly prepared meal served in a welcoming home offers, and replicate it for total strangers, every day, and every night. It is more than a space that offers the food you cannot make for yourself at home. It is an experience. It is a memory.
Dining out in London can often make you forget this. There are a lot of fiddly small plates, and snooty maître d’s, and lousy customers. Sometimes dining out feels like a chore rather than a treat. But truly, at the heart of every restaurant, is a team who just want to facilitate their customer’s memory-making. To dedicate your life to this is something truly special.
Covid-19 has had devastating effects on many sectors. The hospitality industry is one of the hardest hit. I don’t consider myself politically knowledgeable, or active, but I had very little hope that this government would support my beloved industry. And yet, they have delivered a horribly named scheme to help the very institutions which, without it, would surely go bankrupt. I have been reluctant to dine out since lockdown rules were eased. It seems far easier to continue in my bubble in Hackney, without any second thought to the businesses outside my door that are desperate for any patronage. Without our custom, the Spiga’s of London – and indeed, around the world – will close. We will be left with big chains, with their garish lighting and bland food and totally forgettable dining experiences.
I leave you with this: when I was 12 years old, my father picked me up from a party, and stopped at Spiga for a caffè corretto on the way home. “Have you ever tried alcohol before, Anna?” he asked me. I swung my legs off the high bar stool and shook my head no. The training bra I was just filling out dug into my underarms. My braces cut into my lips. My dad slid over the glass of grappa, nodding at the clear liquid within it. My eyes lit up, in disbelief of what was happening. “All in one gulp” he said. I picked up the small glass and, without second thought, shot the smooth liquid back. It was fire water. My eyes watered, my throat burned, I could feel the heat sliding down my oesophagus and into my stomach, where it sat like acid. I vowed right then and there to never touch alcohol again. Lucca saw the whole thing unfold and walked over to give me a big kiss on my cheek, laughing at the horror on my face. “Better to leave it till you’re older, Bella” he had said, throwing me one of his signature winks.
This is still one of my fondest memories.
You are not eating out to help out. You are eating out to save a very special industry that will, otherwise, be lost.
Spiga d’Oro restaurant in Durban. Image via Trip Advisor.
Anna van Dyk is a writer and hosts supper clubs with Londoners Who Lunch.