I wrote a column for the Spectator about an Italian cooking class I attended in Venice:

Rosa did not speak a word of English, nor we any Italian. Our translator was a tall, distracted man named Simon. Simon seemed an unusual choice. Not so much because of his English, which though limited was clear enough, but rather on account of his tendency to lose his cool whenever he couldn’t find the word he was looking for. “Dis flour is different dan dis flour because . . . because . . . ohhhh!!” Eye roll, wild gesticulation, abandoned sentence.