FLASH ! BAM !

Lombardi’s is on the corner of Fremont and Allegheny in Baltimore, smack in the middle of Little Italy. Longtime residents hang on like flies to tar paper. Their parents, grandparents lived around here and they are staying the course. Narrow row houses, white marble or white wooden steps are flavor from a dying world. Once there must have been black iron hitching posts along the gutters. They are gone, replaced by parking meters. Customers, even residents, circle the streets searching for a place to pull in. A row of decrepit houses was torn down about two years ago and parking lots were put in by the city which maintains them with $3 fees per hour. They are within walking distance of super great Italian restaurants–as long as there is no snow on the ground. Recently Lombardi’s and Alfred’s across the street put in valet parking. It is costly and annoying as cars line up and block traffic. Leaving is bad too because the valets have to find our cars on the street and get them back to us before we die.

We habitue’s groan and bear it. Sure, I know it’s the garlic, the anchovies, the hot ground pepper that give me heartburn, indigestion, but I’d rather blame Lombardi than myself. Each visit is a dilemma for me. ‘Change your selection, Fool. Absolutely not!’ If I do that I might as well get a too thick pizza in our own neighborhood. There will be easy free parking, plenty of lights, but no marble steps, no whiff of garlic.’

My husband and I plus our good friends, Sara and Joseph, with a reservation at Lombardi’s, wait 30 minutes. We fume. The maitre’ dshrivels his shoulders when he looks t us. As soon as we are seated, our displeasure abates. Luigi, our regular waiter, serves us chilled Valpolicello on the house. Laughter, loud conversations, orders in, orders out are the usual routine. We love it–loved it-until tonight.

An unexpected ear-splitting clap of thunder shakes the building. The lightning that preceded it was hidden by shuttered blinds covering all the side windows. My heart almost stops beating. Thunder rolls and rolls. Rain pounds on the windows, seems to be slowing down. A few wet, disheveled patrons squeeze into the entrance area. No tables are available so they stand and grumble. Waiters bring them rolls of paper towels to at least dry their hands, wipe their faces. Mixed in with the thunder comes the sharp high toned wail of sirens. They are stuck. Narrow streets are blocked. Parked cars remain parked with drivers cussing a blue streak. Firemen push in the front and side restaurant doors, knocking standing patrons off their feet. ‘Get out, get out NOW. Everybody. I mean everybody.’ They stand stalwart, contain the panic. ‘What’s on fire?’ someone yells. A fireman answers, ‘This restaurant. Shut up and move quickly. Don’t push.’

As we near the main door, we are aware ladders are leaning against the wall, a fireman in full hat, boots, ventilator over his face, is climbing to the roof. The scraggly, frightened previous happy diners are lead across the street. I almost trip on broken bricks that had to come from the roof. ‘Keep moving. Everything is under control. We need space. Move faster.’

We are still together with Sara and Joe. ‘There’s your car, Gil. Looks like you have a ticket on the windshield.’ My husband lifts the wiper and the ticket disintegrates in his fingers. He saves the pieces to show the judge if he has to explain why he didn’t pay it. That man of mine has the smarts some time. He unlocks the door. We get in and pass an hour talking, playing word games. There is simply no way to get past the hook and ladder that barely fit in between cars on the right and left. It is near midnight when we feel vibrations and see the fire truck and its crew slowly pulling out. I feel like Mrs. Martin Luther King, ‘Free at Last.’