This column is supposed to be relevant to women living in Ireland. I give a sense of what's happening in San Francisco, which pretty much is also happening, has just happened, or is about to happen in Ireland. Well, now I'm going to break the rules. I want to tell you about something that will make absolutely no sense to you unless you visit San Francisco. It's not hot and hip. I doubt that it will inspire a trend in Dublin, but it just begs to be written about.

I'm talking about a local Italian restaurant. The restaurant is called the Steps of Rome, and if you do visit this lovely city, you must go there. It's right in the heart of North Beach, the Italian neighborhood, on Columbus Avenue. And although it's surrounded by other, fancier Italian restaurants, and authentic Italian cafes, it's the only place that makes me feel as though I had stepped through a rip in the space-time continuum and that I am, in fact, right in the middle of the busiest restaurant on the busiest street in Rome.

The restaurant is not particularly big, although they squeeze an astonishing number of people in. Tables are tiny and chairs are shoved against each other. You get used to bumping elbows with the diners at the next table while refilling your wine glass or tearing off a piece of warm bread to dip in olive oil. The food is good and cheap. Try the carbonara with a bottle of Chianti. But the food is not the reason I want to write about the place. It's the men.

Most nights, the charming host, Massmiliano, will be standing at the door, looking as laid back as if he were relaxing on a beach, and not facing fifty very hungry people standing around on the sidewalk waiting for another fifty people to hurry up and finish eating inside. No matter how many people are waiting, there is never a list you have to find and put your name on. Simply walk up to Massmiliano and tell him how many are in your party, maybe throwing in a comment about how hungry you are. He will say reassuringly, "five minutes, maybe ten, bella." If you are a woman, he will touch your shoulder or take your hand as he says this. You look at the crammed restaurant, and the sea of hopeful faces outside, and you can't believe it. But Massmiliano has given you a reason to believe that soon you will be tucking into fresh bruschetta and warm creamy carbonara, so you wait.
And you wait. Forty-five minutes later you march up to him and say accusingly, "we have been waiting forty-five minutes. You told us it would be ten." At this point, he casts another look around the packed restaurant and assures you in a Tuscan purr that it will be another five minutes. Ten minutes later, when you are just on the verge of stalking off to another restaurant, your table is ready. As you are shown to your table, squeezing between other diners to get there, the jolly looking man making cappuccinos might fling out an arm towards you and burst into Italian opera. Other waiters, all Italian, glance appreciatively in your direction, their dark eyes warm and caressing.

Suddenly you feel gorgeous.

Eating at the Steps of Rome gives you the opportunity to watch other women come in. Financial District movers and shakers with Donna Karan suits and Kate Spade bags. Almost all of them are irritated, because of course Massmiliano has told them almost an hour ago, "ten minutes bella." But a touch on the elbow and a murmured compliment and the irritation melts away, and these tough American women smile and blush and touch their hair flirtatiously.

Italian men just have this skill with women. They appreciate us. When I was in Italy a few years ago, I never felt unsafe walking along the streets of Florence, because the men calling out softly as I passed were not being lewd. They were simply expressing joy and gratitude for women. And it doesn't piss the boyfriends and husbands off either. The waiters at the Steps of Rome manage to convey to the men coming in with their dates that they think they are blessed to be with such luscious women.

All in all, it's a great place for a date. And when you get up to leave after a wonderful meal, the manager might clutch his heart and sigh heavily as if to say that without you, his restaurant will be a darker place. Some of this carries over to the man you're with. Maybe he finds himself thinking, "She is wonderful; those Italian guys were right." And then he'll hold you a little closer and suggest stopping for gelato.