Balls of Meat, Please

One morning I had a craving for meatballs and decided we would have some for lunch. Knowing that it would take a lot less time (with better results), I set off in search of homemade meatballs made by hands other than mine. Where does one go when shopping for homemade meatballs? The obvious choice was the butcher shop and so that was where I went.

When I arrived small gaggle of elderly women were gathered in the small shop, squawking loudly in a dialect I have yet to learn. Some had handkerchiefs loving tied around their heads making them look every part of the old-Italian woman stereotype. Too busy chatting to place their orders, they waved me ahead to the front of the line. I peered into the packed display case and immediately spotted my prize. Nestled between the pigs feet and skinned rabbits was a tray of freshly made meatballs just waiting to be eaten.

The butcher's wife stood behind the counter greeting me with a wide-tooth grin. "Dimmi," she said still smiling, tell me. Not knowing the Italian name for meatballs I made a mistake commonly made by expats and tourists around the world, I literally translated the English name into Italian word for word. Unfortunately this doesn't always work.

"I would like six balls of meat," I said as I tried to add a touch of Italian grammar by saying balls of meat rather than meatballs. Laughter erupted from behind me, somehow the old women had heard my mistake over their loud chatter. Instantly I knew that my translation had failed.

I found out the hard way that the Italians don't call meatballs by the same name. By literally translating the word meatballs, I had essentially asked the butcher's wife for balls (slang for testicles) of meat.

"May I please have six testicles of meat," says the foreigner.

The butcher's wife, trying to conceal her smirk and not understanding what I wanted, asked me to try again. I felt my face become hot and I wondered just which shade of red I had turned. "I don't know what you call them in Italian, but in English they are called meatballs. You know, balls made from meat, cheese and bread," I explained pointing to the tray in the display case. A second round of laughter broke out and I was sure one of the old women would drop dead from all the excitement.

"Ah, polpette," the butcher's wife said also pointing to the tray of meatballs.

"Yes, polpette," I exclaimed with an embarrassed smile, a sigh of relief escaping from my lips. Six meatballs were placed into a paper sack, I paid for my polpette, thanked the butcher's wife and left the busy shop. A third wave of laughter exploded as I walked pass the group of old women and out the door. I no longer had to wonder which shade of red I had turned. My face, feeling as hot as the desert sun, was surely candy-apple red.