La Galleria

A few days ago, when we went to Rotterdam because Billie Stormzy had developed a bit of an obsession for going to that city, his sister really did not want to come. In order to plie her, I had to make two promises: she could have fries for lunch, and on Satuday she could chose what we would do. Today is Saturday, and she is in charge. When she made her choice, I realise I should have slightly modified my promise: I should have said, we would do something together, and she could chose what we would do. As a result, her choice is that she will go and do something with a friend, leaving Billie Stormzy and me to our own devices. What she chose was that she would go ice skating at the ice skating ring in front of the Kurhaus - it's there every winter and she loves to go for a skate on it. To at least spend some time with her, I suggested we could go for lunch together before that and she agreed, so before she will put her skates on, we're visiting La Galleria, which is right in front of the ice skating ring. 

And yet, Billie Stormzy and I are still sitting by herself, as his sister, Rihanna Gaga, is outside waiting for her friend. La Galleria has the bad luck it is located in a building without soul: a modern construction that really is not pretty at all. The whole area in front of the Kurhaus is, in fact, terribly ugly. The Holland Casino, made of metal plates with small round windows, is probably the worst looking building, but the competition is certainly stiff. It is therefore quite a feat that the place still looks quite pretty - much better, in fact, than the half-hearted attempt at an Italian bistro look of the restaurant that La Galleria runs at the boulevard, which we visited almost a year ago. The floor consists of wonderful coloured tiles that look like something you'd rather expect to find in some old mansion in the Italian countryside than in a building in the Netherlands from the 1980s. And the walls are covered in nice looking wallpaper with a pattern either drawn by William Morris, or somebody trying to imitate his proto-Art Nouveau-style. 

On the sound system, there's upbeat Italian pop music. A waitress - Italian herself, judging from her accent - comes to take our order for drinks, and Billie Stormzy has apple juice. I take a tea. Rihanna Gaga comes in, her friend has not arrived yet. Billie Stormzy insisted we'd sit at a small table for two, and Rihanna Gaga sits down at another small table for two next to it. After a while, I tell her I see her friend, and she runs out side, returning with her friend and the friend's mother. We chat a little, then the mother leaves. A waiter - also Italian - brings the menu. Rihanna Gaga has a pasta carbonara, Billie Stormzy takes a pizza margherita, and I, expecting that I will probably end up eating quite a bit of the pizza and pasta, order a selection of antipasta for myself and Rihanna Gaga's friend, who says she's not very hungry. After taking our order, the friendly waiter asks us to move to a larger table. I'm happy to oblige - the larger table comes with a couch that surrounds the entire table, which is a nice way to sit with three children. Billie Stormzy, however, protests, and Rihanna Gaga - who's favourite question is always "why" - demands a explanation. I tell her there is none, but she keeps returning to it: why does the waiter want us to move to this table. I tell her it's not polite to talk about people who are present (the waiter is standing next to our table) as if they are not, and then she shifts her attention to asking why Billie Stormzy does not want to move to this table. I tell her I don't know - sometimes things are the way they are - but she seems unhappy with not understanding.

 After this short, rowdy moment, the kids return to being very pleasant. Billie Stormzy has been sitting on my lap since we arrived, and is talking in a wise manner about the future and the past. One day, he will be four. Now he is three, and he used to be younger. Two. One. Zero.
"But before," he says, "I was seventy."
"You were?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
"Yes. I was seventy once," he says. I ponder his vocabulary, which is really quite extraordinatory. Which three year old says "once"? (Or, as he does in Dutch, "ooit".) He probably picked this use of the word up somewhere, and is repeating it without truly knowing what he is saying. He does this sometimes, and it can be quite funny. Like his use of the word "unfortunately", when he announces, in a serious voice, looking at the clock, that "it is now four o'clock, unfortunately". Or, "that car is blue, unfortunately."

The food is served by La Galleria's friendly and efficient staff. The pizza and the pasta are, as can be expected from an Italian restaurant, delicious. Billie Stormzy and Rihanna Gaga agree: he eats the pizza with relish, although I have to fold the pieces so that he thinks he is only eating the dough, because if he sees the tomato or cheese, he refuses to eat; and she repeatedly says the spaghetti is "so good!" The friend has a slice of pizza and agrees it's nice. The antipasta however, I'm afraid to say, are a bit uninspired. There's some nice, big olives, bits of parmezan cheese and ham that taste good (although nothing amazing), but also two types of shrimps, mozzerella and dried tomaties that taste quite bland. The kids sample a few things - the ham is quite popular with Rihanna Gaga and her friend has some shrimps - but leave most of it to me. Together with about one third of the pasta and a quarter pizza, this means I have quite a large lunch.

Billie Stormzy is no longer sitting on my lap, and tries to run around, then jump, then try to climb over the couch. I tell him to stop doing that, so he slides to the floor and start running around a bit. He remains close to the table, so I let him because he won't bother other guests. There are a few other people, mostly older couples. Having finished eating, the girls chat about school and what they did during the Christmas break. They're getting restless, eager to go skating, and Billie Stormzy is starting to lose his patience. It's clearly time to move on.