 |
| Is that a Maltese Falcon? |
Since the advent of smartphones, everyone’s life has become a mini movie shared with the world at large. Whether we want to watch it or not, is a different story.
We’re sat outside a lovely Italian trattoria (Da Pablo) in Valletta enjoying the ambiance, the delicious complimentary bread with balsamic vinegar and a glass of chilled beer when suddenly our holiday meal is gate-crashed by two bimbos who ignoring all diners, proceed to turn the restaurant into their own personal film set.
 |
| Restaurant and movie set |
Lead actor, a brunette with more paint on her face than the Sistine Chapel, orders a glass of red vino. A cheeky little vintage which she then proceeds to swirl round and round. Perhaps not the greatest idea when wearing a beige ensemble straight out of the Kelly Hoppen holiday wear catalogue. Let’s hope she’s got a firm grip on that glass, I thought. I watched bemused and so did everyone else tucking into dinner.
Having been given directions on where to sit/stand/speak by her phone pointing movie-producing buddy, it’s Lights! Camera! Action! And so, a curious scene unfurls directly behind the other half who is busily stuffing huge quantities of carbonara pasta into his mouth in case there’s a biblical famine.
First, she sits holding the wine glass looking to camera for a few close ups, pouting like a halibut gasping for air. A swish of hair this way, then that way. Another pout. Wine glass aloft. Then put down again. Another pout and swish of heavily dyed locks. A sip of wine but not too much so as not to ruin her lippy.
With silent takes complete, time for scripted dialogue. Our leading lady pirouettes gracefully round the table next door where a man tucking into a huge bowl of moules mariniere almost has his pint knocked into his lap as she breezes past, oblivious to the fact that people are here to eat and not be a supporting cast.
She poses in the trattoria’s red doorway theatrically, glass in hand like Keith Floyd in a bad cooking commercial. Pout. Swish. Sashay away, winding round the tables in eel-like fashion. She eventually slips back into her seat with all the grace of a bowl of muesli, all the while gabbling away ten-to-the-dozen in some foreign tongue.
What could she be saying? I wondered. Can’t be a wine review, she’s hardly touched a drop. Food critic? Nah, not the way she swatted away that menu bearing waiter as if dismissing an annoying fly. Perhaps she’s one of those ‘influencers’ who like nothing better than to pose around in their best togs looking like they’re having the greatest holiday ever when the reality is they’re stuck in a shit room in some cheap hotel full of stag parties or Germans.
We’re almost on dessert when finally after about half a dozen takes, it’s a wrap. She leaves the untouched wine glass on the red checked tablecloth then flounces off whilst her friend settles the bar bill. The waiter flicks me a look that says ‘what the hell was that all about?’ before laying down some clean cutlery in case there’s a sequel.
What is the world coming to? I’m looking forward to a week’s worth of entertaining holiday dining. Maybe tomorrow I could audition for a speaking part! Failing that, I’ll just photo-bomb filming whilst coughing or farting loudly.
 |
| View from Valletta |
No comments:
Post a Comment