Here is How Lucky Accidents Could Take You to Hidden Places!

artwithelida
Nov 17
4 min read

(after taking the advice of a little shop gallery owner who we visited instead of going to the Picasso museum)

The Uber driver dropped us off at the beginning of the street, which at a glance seemed like a quaint, quiet town. We browsed through some shops, wishing we had larger suitcases or a way to carry more things home. All the while, we were searching for the restaurant that Elizabet had told us about (see the post about her here).

Eventually, we rounded a corner and walked into a large courtyard. Across the way, little tables covered in red and white checked tablecloths stood. It looked like the object of our quest. Within a few minutes, a tall, lean man with a full head of silver-black hair, slicked-back in a pompadour, appeared. His tight jeans were pulled up high and belted tightly, unusual for modern sensibilities, he looked like he had stepped out of a Happy Days set.

We sat down and Fonzie stepped up to our table, dragging behind him a giant sign, which turned out to be the menu. I could tell he wasn’t French, and when asked where he was from, he proudly announced that he was Italian, a Napolitano, “the very best of the Italians.” He scribbled our orders down on the paper tablecloth and was off, lugging the monstrosity behind him to the next table.

As we ate our food, we observed the paintings, which all seemed to be by the same artist. Elizabet mentioned that the owner was a collector, so we were curious where the other artwork was. Our Napolitano “Fonzie” wasn’t giving us much information beyond the food and drink.

As we took turns paying, I noticed a lot of photographs on the wall, many of them in black and white. Then I noticed a painting that looked familiar. It was behind glass. I leaned in closer and read “Chagall” on the bottom right corner. Whoa! I thought, “Chagall was here?”

My friends asked Fonzie about the legend of the restaurant, and he became very animated as he ushered us toward the stairs. He pointed up and said “I was born in the room upstairs.” His parents were immigrants from Naples who had opened the restaurant, which also served as an inn and, more importantly, an art mecca for artists. Artists could have free room and board with the promise that the artist would give one of their works to the family when they left.

He waved us down a set of stairs, through another room, and then down another flight still, excitedly chattering about the history of his family and the artists who had made the trek here to this tiny town, and especially, to this inn and restaurant. As we walked down the stairs, he flipped on the lights, revealing a massive gallery full of artwork. The room opened up into two others, each one even bigger than the first. It was like we had walked into the Louvre or the Accademia, …

but we were in the basement of a restaurant.

I think all of us just stood there for a second, picking our mouths up off the floor. We started to walk through, snapping pictures, taking videos, and just soaking in the art. Around one corner, there was a photograph of Picasso and what looked to be Fonzie’s dad. There were several other other artists, more or less renowned, who had made their home here…at least for a while.

After we had exhausted our cameras and our eyes, we ventured back upstairs. Fonzie was there, cleaning tables and still smiling. He quizzed us on a few of the artists we didn’t know and then reprimanded us, “Your art history is terrible!” Even so, he hugged and kissed us goodbye, and, as we were walking out, he hollered, “You should come for another visit when you have more time. There are six more floors!”

As we walked toward the end of the street to meet our Uber, we laughed and chatted about the day’s events. If we hadn’t missed the Picasso museum, we probably wouldn’t have gone to Elizabet’s studio. And the reality is that we got a rare view of Picasso by being in a place where he worked and where other artists worked together collaboratively, trying out new techniques, developing their styles, and becoming the legends they are today.

Why isn’t this place in everyone’s guidebooks? Why doesn’t it have a queue of people snaking through the city or a big ticket price to get in? Why is this place hidden?

I reflected on our Fonzie, the waiter, the owner, the storyteller. I thought of the joy he had in not only sharing his place and its art, but also in serving the food, dragging his giant menu from table to table. He had preserved the feeling and spirit his parents had created — a secret place for artists to develop their craft, but above all, a sacred place for them to discover who they were.

I thought of how serendipitous the entire day was on my 50th birthday. As I looked down at the tiger’s eye ring that Elizabet had given me from her gallery, I was grateful for the additional gift of this secret museum. We would have never found it otherwise.

If you haven’t noticed, I never listed the name of the restaurant or even the town in which there are six floors of paintings from some of the most influential painters of that time. If you want to see it, you’ll have to visit Elizabet and her beautiful art gallery.