Beanery Online Literary Magazine

March 12, 2011

Lost in My Pasta

BEANERY ONLINE LITERARY MAGAZINE

LOST IN MY PASTA

Mark Sliwa

     We did the unthinkable. My wife and I showed up without a reservation at a popular restaurant at five minutes before seven on a Saturday night. Now everybody knows that 7:00 pm is the witching hour of chaos at any dining establishment on a weekend evening. 

     The destination was Turillo’s Steak House on top of the mountain and the weather was poor. Snow, ice, and a blanket of fog guided the way to the summit. I had selfish thoughts that less people would be on the road, meaning upon our arrival for dinner we would be treated as unexpected royalty; or at least as royal as the small mountain village of Jennerstown would allow. 

     Pulling up to the restaurant, I spied human shadows against the windows by the front entrance. Didn’t these people know we were coming? How dare they!

     Nonetheless, we were prepared. Anticipating the clogged cattle stall in the lobby, we brought books. Books you ask? Yes, better than twiddling your thumbs or being addicted to the small plastic screen of a crack-berry.

     Glancing at the interior real estate, I noticed two open bar stools. We pushed past the hapless twiddlers, took the stools and ordered one bottle of beer.  With our spot paid for, we could now be comfortable until a table was available. The books were opened – an autobiography of Keith Richards for me, and the monthly Sierra Club for the Mrs.  Rock and Roll gluttony against green wholesome living – a paradox, but then so are most relationships.

     As we nursed our solo beer, the people who arrived before us stood and glared with impatience. My favorite cliché is “I’m sorry but your lack of planning is not my emergency” (or discomfort in this particular case). Only one person asked what I was reading and acknowledged my superior planning. I swear I try to be humble.

     Gradually tables freed up and the restless cattle got their spots too. We were called for ours soon after. Two glasses of merlot were ordered; for the main course I chose spaghetti and meatballs and the wife broiled fish.

     Dinner arrived and I never felt inconvenienced. I let the wine seep into my brain, stirred the noodles with my fork, and smiled.

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ADDITIONAL READING:

TURKISH TOILETS IN A DARJEELING (India) TRAIN STATION

WHY NOT EQUITABLE “HORROR” ADS?

TIME OUT FOR TRAVEL…

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