You would dislike us if we were to become angry.

First, we are forced to acknowledge with saddened visage and downcast eye our regrettable absence of these last many months. It was not our intent to disappear for so long, and the longer the disappearance, the greater the hesitance to return.

If our return is welcomed, our friends would thank Burlington's Nonna's Cucina Ristorante for inspiring it. For we have not often left a restaurant in such bad spirits as we left Nonna's tonight.

Our friend was arriving by aeroplane to Toronto from a business voyage to Saxony, and we were tasked with conveying him from there to Hamilton. As his arrival was near supper-time, we thought that a stop for a meal on our way to be in order. Our party numbered three; our other companion wished to try a newish Italian venue in Burlington; we called Nonna's and made a reservation. All was, we thought, rather well in the world.

When we rolled up to the door, we found that our reservation to have shown good forethought, as the restaurant was middling busy, and not a single parking-space remained in the lot. No matter, we thought, and parked behind a closed office next door. We arrived at the hostess's podium three minutes before our reservation time.

Unfortunately, a couple of other diners had arrived shortly before us, and although we could espy several empty tables in the dining-room, the hostess, a busboy, and a server could not together find an appropriate place for them. Solution: we watched in disbelief as they gave our reserved table away to the couple. With her problem so dispatched, the hostess turned to us and inquired as to whether they might assist us.

It took some time to sort out our seating -- it was rather confusing for our trio, after all, having solved the first difficulty only to be presented with another. But after an expense of only time and patience on our part, we were presented with a table and three menus.

Of course, with our returning traveller at the table, we were not short of small-talk, but after ten or fifteen minutes conversation languished and we began to cast about for a server of some description, whom we could perhaps ask for an imbibement and perhaps a small bite to eat. After watching a young gentleman take orders from every other table in the section, and beginning to fear we were the subject of some elaborate prank, the young gentleman presented himself to us, and asked if he might bring us some drinks.

Water, certainly, we suggested; a number of suitable dinner-time refreshments, we added; and if it would not be too much trouble, perhaps he might take our dinner order as well? Grilled calamari to begin; the lasagna for our traveller; pizza quattro stagione for our other companion; and bucatini amatriciana for our good self.

We ought, we think, to say a word or two concerning the menu. A number of appetizers are included, as well as a handful of salads; these run about twelve to fourteen dollars. Then a selection of pastas and pizzas; these similarly priced at about ten to fourteen dollars. Also a selection of pesci and carne; these approximate sixteen to thirty dollars. Finally, the contorni; these side dishes each six dollars. We gathered that the carne and pesci are presented unencumbered by side dishes. The pastas and pizzas therefore represent an attractive value; the Insalata Cesare, being a normal-sized bowl, after all, of vegetables and dressing, represents the lowest value for one's dollar.

The Calamari alla Griglia, however, remains a contender for the title. For at fourteen dollars, there were presented a total of two smallish grilled squid; they were cooked nicely and dressed reasonably well -- lacking salt, we felt, and overburdened with lemon zest -- but we found the entire presentation somewhat misrepresented by its price. Still, chefs being what they are, we were ready to forgive upon receiving the rest of our order.

We watched the kitchen door in vain; we watched the levels in our glasses slip further and further towards the tabletop. The diners around us had all received their meals, even those who had arrived after us; yet we waited.

At long last, our meals were presented -- by a gentleman other than our server, as it happens. The lasagna was reported to be toothsome; the pizza crust quite good, and the sauce well-flavoured. Our bucatini were accompanied by a pleasant tomato-sauce, and topped with a crisply-fried round of pancetta, all of which we received gratefully. However, the pasta was studded with overly large and rather undercooked lardons of pancetta, as well as small chunks of similarly undercooked onion. While we were not terribly impressed, we were by this point leaning towards the ravenous side of the hunger spectrum, and were willing to give these defects a pass.

Our food was soon gone, except for a couple of pieces of the pizza; all of the glasses on the table were now dry. And, from the time of the delivery of our meals, we had been alone.

Of course, there were others near us, though many customers in our area had begun to depart. We cannot say whether a severe and localized weather-pattern might have covered our table in a fog, or what black magical art (in which neither are we schooled, nor do we believe one jot) might have obscured us from human view. But our server steadfastly refused to appear, and no one else had taken his place tableside.

Ten minutes after our meals were finished, we began to attempt to flag down one of the gentlemen who had visited our table beforehand; we found no success. After fifteen minutes, we waylaid a passing server on her way to -- heaven forfend! -- serve her customers, and sent her on with instructions to summon our own server, whoever or wherever he might be, immediately.

After only another few minutes, our man hove into view. We asked in no uncertain terms that the leftover pizza put in a suitable container for transportation, and the bill be proffered, post-haste. Our server made inquiries as to our enjoyment of our meals, and whether any orders of coffee might be forthcoming.

Feeling that our plain directive had somehow been misunderstood, we again ordered the pizza boxed, and the bill written up, without delay.

Our server, at this point, leaned across the table towards us; looked us keenly and squarely in the eye; and instructed us not to become upset.

Now, we are neither brigand nor dastard; we do not readily fall to the pugilistic arts when a viciously-phrased letter or stern phone call might prove more successful. However, stare across the table at us in such a manner, especially after woeful dereliction of duty, and then rudely suggest that our own countenance ought to be adjusted; there, sir, you have made a Rough Customer of the Droll Bastard.

We neither turned nor blinked; we raised our voice a decibel or two; and, hoping our furious gaze might bore like a drill into his shrivelled soul, gave our directions again, forming them this time into clear commands; and informed him as well that, since we had been abandoned for quite some time now, we felt quite able to decide for ourselves how upset we might be about the level of service we had received.

It was not a battle he could have won. His gaze dropped to the table; he gathered the remains of our dinner into a pile and toddled off, returning quickly with the bill. We paid by credit, scribbled the most appropriate amount for a tip, and made to depart.

The serving-gentleman, to his minuscule credit, stopped us at the door. He attempted to explain that he did not mean to upset us, and that he was a professional, but it being a busy Saturday evening, he could not help --

We stopped him there, and asked his leave to make a point or two of our own. First, we had been abandoned at our table for some time, without a query as to our satisfaction since our meals arrived; this was unacceptable. Second, we did not tolerate anyone, especially members of a staff whose pay depended on our custom, leaning across tables and staring us down. Therefore, we concluded, since we could not see reason to return, we could leave the matter there.

We turned our back on him, and on Nonna's Cucina Ristorante, and passed into the far more agreeable night air outside.