[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]
I stretched my legs out across the length of the sofa, letting my head loll back against the cushions.
I sat up slightly, reaching out to the coffee table. Resting precisely in the center was a bound book with gold embossing.
The room service menu.
I picked it up. I flipped the heavy parchment pages, my eyes scanning the menu and the English translations below.
Antipasti.
Primi Piatti.
Secondi Piatti.
I reached for the phone resting on the side table. I tapped the button labeled 'In Room Dining' and brought the receiver to my ear.
The line rang twice before a voice answered.
"Buonasera, Hotel Danieli in room dining," the woman said. "How may I help you this evening, sir?"
"Hi there," I said, leaning back into the sofa. "I am calling from the Presidential Suite. Room 501. I would like to order some dinner for two, please."
"Yes, sir, of course," she replied. "What would you like to order this evening?"
"Well," I started, keeping my voice entirely serious. "I would like to order a large pizza. Do you have that famous one... the one with the pineapple toppings on it?"
There was silence on the other end of the line.
"Sir?" the woman finally asked, her voice faltering. "A pizza... with pineapple toppings?"
"Yes," I confirmed, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. "Lots of pineapple."
"Sir, I apologize, but we have a traditional kitchen here," she explained, sounding deeply offended. "We have the Margherita, we have the Diavola, we have the Quattro Formaggi. But we do not have pineapple toppings here."
"Look, I understand the rules," I whispered into the phone, adopting a conspiratorial tone. "But don't worry. Those two Italian brothers aren't looking at us right now. We are fine. You can just sneak a few chunks on there. I won't tell anyone."
"Two Italian brothers?" she asked, her confusion mounting. "What? Sir, I do not understand."
"The plumbers," I clarified. "They aren't watching. It's safe."
"Sir, there are no plumbers in the kitchen..."
I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head. "It's OK, it's OK. I am just joking with you. Please, skip the pizza entirely. Save your chef from a heart attack."
I heard a sigh of relief through the speaker. "Thank you, sir. What may I bring you instead?"
"Let's do some Italian in the Czech Republic," I said, scanning the menu again. "I would like the Chicken Cacciatore, please. And also the slow roasted pork belly with the creamy polenta. Oh, and let's add a Caprese salad to start."
"An excellent choice, sir," she said, her professional tone immediately returning. "Would you care for any beverages to accompany the meal?"
"Yes, I would like a bottle of wine," I said. "A Barolo, perhaps. Whatever your sommelier recommends for the pork and the chicken."
"It will be delivered as soon as possible, sir," she promised.
"Thank you," I said, tapping the red button to end the call.
I set the phone down and picked up the television remote. I clicked the power button, watching the screen flare to life.
I navigated through the menus, switching the language settings over to the streaming apps.
"Let's see what we have here," I muttered, scrolling through the newly added section.
My thumb paused over a colorful thumbnail.
"Oh, look at that," I said aloud, a grin spreading across my face. "There is a new Superman movie. Wow."
I clicked 'Play', settling back into the cushions as the iconic red and yellow 'S' flashed across the screen.
I watched the movie for a while, letting the bright colors and the booming orchestral score fill the quiet suite.
I was just getting to a particularly good action sequence when a sound echoed from the front of the suite.
Knock.
Knock.
I paused the movie, the screen freezing on a shot of a red cape billowing in the wind.
I pushed myself off the sofa, walking barefoot across the thick Persian rug. I reached the heavy double doors and pulled them open.
Standing in the hallway was a young waiter in a white jacket and black bowtie.
He was pushing a gleaming silver trolley covered with a white linen tablecloth.
Several silver cloches rested on top, trapping the heat and the incredible aromas of roasted garlic, tomatoes, and herbs.
"Good evening, sir," the waiter said, offering a polite bow. "Room service."
"Come in," I said, stepping aside and holding the door open wide.
The waiter wheeled the trolley into the suite, carefully navigating the wheels over the threshold.
He pushed it toward the small dining alcove situated by the grand windows overlooking the lagoon.
He locked the wheels, lifting the side flaps of the trolley to expand it into a proper dining table.
He arranged the heavy silver cutlery, placed the crystal wine glasses perfectly, and uncorked the bottle of Barolo with a swift motion, pouring a tiny amount into one glass for me to inspect.
"Everything is prepared, sir," the waiter said, standing at attention with his hands clasped behind his back. "You can call on the landline number to have us pick up the utensils and the trolley whenever you are finished."
"Thank you, this looks incredible," I said, walking over to the table. I reached into the back pocket of my trousers, pulling out my leather wallet. I slid out two fifty euro notes, extending my hand toward him. "For your trouble."
The waiter looked at the bill, then raised his hands, shaking his head gently.
"No, sir," he said, offering an apologetic smile. "We do not have a tipping culture here. We have enough money for our salary. The service charge is already included."
I blinked, looking from the money to his face. "Really?"
"Yes, sir."
"Wow," I breathed, sliding the bill back into my wallet. "That is... too nice of Europe. I am used to needing a calculator just to buy a coffee back home. Well, in that case, thank you for the excellent service."
"Enjoy your meal, sir," the waiter said, bowing once more before turning and making a silent exit from the room. The door clicked shut behind him.
I walked back to the sofa, sitting down and picking up the remote to resume the movie.
Exactly one minute later, the heavy brass handle of the front door turned. The door swung open, and Wanda stepped into the suite.
She closed the door behind her, leaning her back against the wood with an exhausted sigh.
I tossed the remote onto the table and crossed my arms over my chest, giving her my best judgmental look.
"You are so late," I stated. "Do you have any idea how long I have been alone in this giant room? I was beginning to think I had been abandoned. I had to order a feast just to cope with the isolation."
Wanda pushed off the door, a sheepish smile breaking through her exhaustion as she walked toward the living area.
She kicked off her shoes, letting them fall onto the rug.
"Oh, I am sorry," she said, her voice carrying a hint of genuine apology. She walked up to the edge of the sofa, looking down at me.
"Sorry is not enough," I declared, maintaining my rigid posture. "I have suffered emotional damage. I watched twenty minutes of Superman without anyone to critique the CGI with me."