The crostini had barely disappeared from the massive platters when the dozen Italians at the next table launched into a charming song about a whore.
There were 27 of us at our table, mostly strangers to one another and to the Italian language. But when the singers hit the rousing chorus about “la putta,” heads turned. We at least knew that much Italian.
The guy serving as conductor blushed and laughed as we applauded, then he launched into another verse.
We were at Parisi, an Italian restaurant in north Denver whose owner, Simone Parisi, has brought back family-style dining on Wednesday nights.
The setup: two long tables in the cavernous downstairs dining room, courses arriving in waves, help yourself and pass the serving plate down the line. Eat. Drink.
And talk to your neighbor.
“We’ve been doing this for two months,” said Parisi, who presides over the show like a father at a reunion. “I grew up in Florence, and I wanted to bring Tuscan-style communal dining to Denver. I think people are liking it.”
Community tables were once staples of public dining in America. From taverns on remote turnpikes to Manhattan oyster houses, people broke bread together.
Now that’s gone by the wayside, undone by factors that sociologists can wax about all day. The bottom line is that unless you eat dinner at a restaurant’s bar, mingling with fellow diners doesn’t happen.
At Parisi, it does.
Around us rose a vast wall of chatter, folks talking — often loudly, given the din — and exchanging business cards and phone numbers.
All this amid waves of food: bucatini in fresh marinara, potatoes with grilled artichokes, garden peas and pancetta, and the triumph — except for the pig — huge platters of herbed and roasted pork.
Sean McManus, a transplant from Florida I had just met, tucked into the dish. His eyes rolled back in something resembling religious bliss.
“Wonderful,” he said. His wife, Stephanie, agreed. Then we were off and running about great meals we had eaten.
Just the reaction Parisi hoped for — a table of former strangers finding common ground in food.
There was a fresh outburst from the Italians, a fractured rendition of “Happy Birthday.” The singers were in hot pursuit of the proper key, but it had fled. It was a moment of international bonding: The song is wretched in any language.
Things were quiet for a minute, and then another chorus arose. The gent on my right cocked an ear. “I think only three of them are singing, but it sounds like an entire choir,” he said.
To me it was more like a pack of hounds baying “O Sole Mio” by the light of a Tuscan moon, but no matter.
My lovely bride looked at me. “You know, if the ceilings were taller, I’d feel like I’d have to get up and dance on the table,” she said.
All this food and the threat of a floor show, too.
The tiramisu arrived in a dessert bowl the size of a hubcap, accompanied by glasses of limoncello. I figured, conservatively, we were looking at about 20,000 calories.
After a brief break, the singing resumed at the next table.
Parisi stood to the side, taking in his creation with a big grin.
He could not have been happier unless he had been us.
In a city made up of so many newcomers, this was community.
William Porter’s column runs Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Reach him at 303-954-1977 or wporter@denverpost.com.
