The village of Pienza doesn’t care about your schedule.

The village of Pienza doesn’t care about your schedule. At 3:00 PM, the stone walls radiate a dry, ancient heat, and the only sound you should hear is the buzzing of cicadas and the occasional clink of a wine glass from a shaded patio. This is the time for riposo—rest.

My grandmother, Nonna Rosa, has run La Piccola Lanterna since she was twenty years old. She is seventy now, with hands that smell permanently of rosemary and flour, and a spine made of Italian steel. She had just finished the lunch rush and was beginning the ritual of wiping down the heavy oak tables when the door creaked open, letting in a blast of hot air and four very agitated people.

A man in a sweat-stained polo shirt marched in, followed by a woman fanning herself aggressively with a tourist map and two teenagers who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else.

Entitled Dad: “Table for four. Now.”

Nonna Rosa looked up, a cleaning rag in one hand. She’s the kind of woman who treats every guest like family, but she expects the same respect in return.

Nonna Rosa: “Good afternoon. I’m sorry, but the kitchen is closed until dinner. We have some cold water or perhaps an espresso, but—”

Entitled Mom: “We walked in the heat! We’ve been trekking for two miles! Feed us!”

Nonna began to explain that the stoves were off and the chef (her brother, Paolo) was at home taking his nap, but the father wasn’t having it. He looked at her simple apron and her tired eyes and made a fatal mistake.

Entitled Dad: “I want to talk to the owner, not a cleaning lady. Go get someone who actually makes decisions.”

The room went silent. There were three “regulars” in the corner—old men who had been drinking the same brand of grappa at that same table for forty years. They stopped mid-sentence.

Nonna Rosa: (Her voice dropping to a dangerously calm level) “I am the owner. I have been the owner for fifty years. Dinner starts at seven.”

Entitled Mom: “YOU?! Are you kidding me? Look at this place, it’s a dump! We are paying customers, and we demand service!”

At this point, Marco, a local carpenter and a regular who adored Nonna like his own mother, stood up. He’s about six-foot-four and built like a mountain.

Marco: “Please, lower your tone. You are in a place of business, but you are also in a lady’s home. Show some respect.”

The father turned on him, his face turning a shade of purple that rivaled a ripe eggplant.

Entitled Dad: “Stay out of this, buddy! WE’RE AMERICANS. WE KNOW OUR RIGHTS! We have the right to be served! This is a public establishment!”

Another regular, Giorgio, immediately stood up. Giorgio had spent thirty years as a lawyer in Florence before retiring to the village. He didn’t raise his voice; he just adjusted his glasses.

Giorgio: “Actually, sir, you are in Italy. Your ‘rights’ regarding a private business in the United States do not apply here. Furthermore, there is no law in any country that requires a grandmother to cook for you during her break because you failed to check the operating hours on the door.”

Entitled Mom: “This is discrimination! You’re just refusing us because we’re tourists! I’m going to write a review that shuts this place down! I’ll put it on every travel site!”

Nonna Rosa finally dropped the rag. She walked around the counter, her small frame somehow towering over the shouting man.

Nonna Rosa: “You want to talk about rights? I have the right to choose who sits at my tables. And I choose people who have kindness in their hearts. You? You have only hunger and anger.”

She pointed to the door.

Nonna Rosa: “The kitchen is closed. For you, it is closed forever. Please leave before I call the Carabinieri to explain the ‘rights’ of a property owner to remove trespassers.”

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