When Grazia is on duty at our spot, due cappuccini all but goes without saying. Only we say it anyway–if only as prelude to naming whatever treats are in store.

When the help’s there, as this morning, we normally order the same two words. A verb may have helped. Or moving past the crowd to get closer to the counter.

But this time, unlike all the others, instead of our cups of Joe we beheld il conto (the “bill,” i.e., for those who are counting on a translation of our predicament).

Now Rebecca, at this moment (I discover later), figures the standing procedure at Italian bars has just changed to pay first and then to enjoy yourself at leisure.

Meanwhile I am speechless, as I overturn what few Italian words and phrases I have stored in the attic of my memory for emergencies never quite like this one.

About the time that Rebecca finds the right line the bargirl realizes we haven’t already been served. Just as we’re relieved, in other words, she’s embarrassed.

“Mi dispiace” joins “Non c’è problema” with broad smiles all around to span the crisscrossed communication. Once we finish, I seek instruction on a punchline.