Press once and wait
That threshold between wanting and having — when did you last notice it?
It wasn’t all that late. Just 11pm perhaps, though it felt much later. The day had been long and packed, visiting the tacky tourist hell that is the Vatican. If you’ve been you’ll understand.
Earlier in the evening we’d eaten supper as a family on a cobbled backstreet in the Ponte neighbourhood. Then my wife and I left the kids (more young adults really and perfectly happy to be without us for a few hours) at the AirBnB and snuck off for a little one-on-one time.
First we returned to the cheesy-looking bar we’d passed on the same street as our restaurant. It was too brightly lit and furnished more like a café, but it probably served negronis. It’d do. But by the time we got back the staff were already mopping, chairs upturned on tables.
So we tried another — the next nearest I could find on my phone’s map. People had posted pictures of its menu and it looked decent enough. I expected an antlers and leather sofas situation. Proper cocktails. It was ten minutes walk away but the night felt surprisingly warm, even though we were just two days off Halloween.
Our route took us off the tourist streets and across a wide road where cars sped by, then into back streets that felt somehow different. Quieter. Emptier. We passed a wine bar with groups of locals sat at tables in the street. We weren’t in the mood for wine. The map took us around a corner and down another street... and the bar wasn’t there.
Checking the address took us around yet another corner, to a quietly monied hotel, sleek but understated. A pair of bored looking soldiers in camouflage fatigues paced outside, machine guns slung at their waists. The bar was here, somewhere. Perhaps inside. Perhaps on the roof. And perhaps, given gli soldati, there was some bigshot cardinal inside sinking Camparis. Either way, these were not the vibes we wanted.
What to do? Return home? Or give it one last try? I consulted the map again. Saw a bar another ten minutes’ walk away. No reviews. No clues. Just a likely looking name: Argot.
Fuck it. Double or quits.
Ten minutes later we stopped at a crossroads and looked around. We had arrived — but where was the bar? Then I spied it. Just a doorway with a viewing slot, a tiny brass plaque and a bell. “Press once and wait,” the plaque instructed us.
I pressed.
As my wife and I waited in that warm Roman night, I felt a mixture of relief and anxiety. We had found the bar and it looked promising. But would they let us in? Was it even open? I felt excitement at the prospect of a proper, adult moment of indulgence. I felt an element of pride, too, and knowing confidence that the wait was just part of the game, but this was still tinged with a little thrill of concern. Was this moment stretching just a little too long? And then the viewing slot on the door shot open. The night began.
