Hungry

TASTE MY DAY

 

The Italian restaurant just opened its doors at 11 a.m. A customer needing a pizza so early in the morning, follows me in. A talkative elderly couple comes next. They are led to the middle booth. I'm here to pick up baked ziti and a lasagna that I ordered last night. Company is coming for lunch today.  My old age and solitude have destroyed my ambition to cook, don't even want to scramble eggs for myself. Nothing tastes good. There is no flavor, no spice that can sneak its way past my tongue. Instead the aromas twine around my nose, making me inhale deeply to capture the past that I cannot retrieve.

 

The only waitress lets out a yelp as she slips on something that should have been cleaned away before the doors opened for business today. My attention leaves my own unhappiness as I have to stifle a giggle when I see the old bald headed man wearing a wig of very hot, red, saucy spaghetti that is sliding to his shoulders. The pizza tosser loses his concentration and his flying pizza hits the hot oven, hangs there for a moment and plops on the floor. The restaurant is a mess and I have not moved an inch as I wait for my baked ziti and lasagna to go.

 

Even though the cashier has no one at his register yet, Antonio stands there, oblivious of what is happening around him. His eyes stare. He looks at his watch, nods to himself and makes a phone call. 'Hello, Boss. I didn't want to call you so early but we have some problems at the Pasadena store. You'd better come over soon, real soon.'

 

My patience is eating a hole in my gut. I ask Antonio to check the kitchen find out how much longer my order will be. 'Tony, I need it for lunch, not dinner.'  His answer upsets me. 'I can't leave my station, 
Ma am. The boss told me I can leave it only if I need to use the can and I can get Lola to man handle the register.' I straighten my back, ask no permission and go behind the counter, avoid the pizza still laying on the  rubber mat and head towards the kitchen. The cook looks to be no more than nineteen years old, surely hasn't graduated from any any chef's course. I clap my hands to get his attention away from sifting flour. No introduction is needed. ' As difficult as it is for a woman of my sensitivities to roar, I roar, 'Where is my baked ziti and lasagna.
It only takes twenty minutes to bake and I''ve been waiting forty. Do you know I am the only customer in the store?'

 

He gives me a very nasty look, tells me to get out of his kitchen and adds, 'Besides I have received no ticket order except one for spaghetti and meatballs with extra sauce.' It's a stand off. 'Cook, I saw Angie put my order on the spindle and somebody came and took it off, walked back here with it. If you come across it, cancel it or eat it yourself. I'm not paying for it.' As I leave the kitchen a busboy is cleaning up the unbaked pizza that fell off the oven door onto the rubber mat. I have to walk around the mess to get out.

 

I leave Antonio's, cross the street to Siggy's Sandwich Parlor, order a large tray of assorted delly sandwiches, enough for eight, all the extras, pickles, slaw, potato salad, Dr. Brown's colas with straws. Siggy oversees everything, takes my money and carries the order out to my car for me.

 

My company arrives on time. We chat. We eat, criticize each other's hair, finger nails and get around to playing bridge.

 

I eat too much. My belly is full. I have a bad case of heart burn and nothing really tasted good.