Sal leaned over the red checked table cloth to give me the first slice of our favorite thin, 12 inch pizza. The smell curled around my face, corkscrewed up my nose and I sneezed, sneezed hard. Sal jumped in surprise and the entire tray fell to the floor. The clatter turned all eyes on us.
A busboy came from nowhere, gathered the greasy mess and disappeared. In another minute busboy two appeared with a wet mop. He slopped it around and dried the floor with paper towels. Mickey, our waitress, was a cool cucumber. With a slight look of disgust, she managed a smile, cleared our table and told us a new pizza was already in the oven for us. ‘Mr. Thomaso said there will be no charge for the new one.’
A buttinski at the table next to us touched Sal’s shoulder to give him good advice. ‘Be smart, sue this place. Their trays should have higher edges.’ Sal and I gave him an acid-cold look. ‘Who asked for your advice, Bub? Mind your own business.’ Mr. Butt, didn’t like Sal’s attitude, pushed his chair back enough so he could stand, and poured a glass of water on Sal’s head. That did it. The brawl began in earnest.
Mr. Thomaso reached the men quickly, too quickly. He slipped, banged into our table and landed flat out on the floor. Rising, he brushed off his white coat, straightened his big chef hat and addressed both men at once, ‘And just who do you want ME to sue?’ The big mouth instigator was quick. ‘Go screw yourself, Mr. Thomaso,’ and adds an apology. ‘I meant to say ‘go sue yourself.’ Some of the anger lessened but did not end.
Either our waitress or Mrs. Thomaso had called the police. Two officers, billy clubs ready, took immediate charge of the melee. They looked around and asked, ‘Who started the trouble. Who hit who first?’ Sal and I pointed directly at buttinski. ‘He claimed I dropped a piece of pizza on his shoes and ruined them.’ Could I keep quiet? No. ‘If any of the sauce from the pizza that accidentally slipped off our tray, found it’s way under our table, under his, I’ll lick it off myself. It just couldn’t have happened.’ In a second the trouble maker slipped off his shoe and showed the officer some sauce and a piece of drying up spaghetti on the toe of his shoe. ‘Mister,’ said the policeman, ‘ how can you can tell where that tiny bit of sauce came from? Does Mr. Thomaso put name tags on his pizzas? Now all of you, go back to your tables, get your belongings, pay what you owe and skedaddle.’
Mrs. Thomaso came out of the kitchen carrying two pizza boxes. They were wilting with steam. She handed each of us a pizza at no charge. Now go home.’ I took one and headed for the door. Mr. Butt opened his box and got as red hot as the pizza. ‘Mrs. Thomaso, I had ordered a Chicago style pizza with anchovies and pepperoni. This one is plain and too thin. Are you trying to cheat me?’ I took Sal by the hand and insisted we just get out of there fast.
As I pushed the door open, I heard a screechy scream, turned and saw Mr. Butt wearing a pizza hat. He tore it off his head and threw it on the floor. Not satisfied, he made a fist at Mrs. Thomaso and let out his breath.
‘You’ll get yours soon. I’m suing you for all your worth.’
She threw a garlic roll at him and he left.
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