November 29, 2020

The Foursome

Allie called at 6:45 and told me she had a 7:17 spot available for me at Tutto Pronto. Most people might be offended to be asked at this late hour but Allie knows this is exactly how I like to have dinner. She also knows that although I am not a huge fan of public restaurants, Tutto is conveniently located five minutes from my house and has a delicious cacio e pepe pasta, which I love.

Also, I was starving.

I asked her who dropped out.

She said “Does it really matter?”

She was right. It didn’t really matter.

I asked who else was in the foursome.

“Jeff and Becky,” she replied.

I like Jeff and Becky. They are nice enough people. Not really nice enough to spend four hours dining with, but that is probably true about everyone else I know and if I adhered to that criteria I would likely always be dining alone.

No, the thing about Jeff and Becky is they are Allie’s music friends, so the conversation invariably turns to music. Which would be perfectly fine if it was actually a conversation about music and did not turn into a digression about the quirks and shortcomings of the other people they play with.

Allie sensed my hesitation and said “We won’t talk about music.”

I said “Maybe we can just have drinks and appetizers?”

“No. Drinks, apps, dinner, and dessert.”

I said “Ok. I will meet you there.”

Seriously, the cacio e pepe is that good.

I walked over to Tutto and was there at 7:10. While it is always a crapshoot whether I actually show up, you can bank on the fact that if I do show up, I will be there on time.

Tutto was packed. That’s the thing about these public restaurants - they get tons of traffic. There were two parties in front of me at the hostess desk. From the sounds of it, neither had reservations. That’s right, 7:15 on a Saturday night. Just come right in without reservations. Are we at war?

When I got to the desk, the hostess, Jessica, smiled and said “It will be about a 45 minute to an hour wait.”

I smiled back and said “Actually, I have a reservation. Allie for four.” Allie is Allie’s Starbucks name. It is her reservations name. It is her name for these little stories. Sometimes I can’t even remember her real name.

“Yes,” answered Jessica, still smiling. “I see it here. Allie for 7:17. Is your entire party here?”

“It’s not,” I replied. I didn’t want to get into an entire ‘What difference does it make if my entire party is here’ debate. Jessica was smiling but there was discernible anger lurking below. I didn’t think I wanted to tangle with her.

“Okee dokee,” she said. “Just let me know when you are all here.”

“Ok.”

“And,” she looked down at her reservations sheet, “we are actually running about fifteen minutes behind. So you are now our 7:32.”

Just then Allie walked up to the counter all out of breath, her dining shoes in her hands and not her feet, and announced “Allie. Table of 4 at 7:17.”

“I’m standing right here,” I said. “What do you think I was doing?”

“Nobody ever knows what you are doing,” she replied. “Ignore him,” she said to Jessica.

Jessica, whose smile had not wavered for five minutes straight, said “As I just told your,” she nodded in my direction, “friend, we are running a little behind. You are now our 7:32.”

“Why?” I said.

“Why what?”

“Why are you running behind?”

“Someone in the 6:45 group sent back their fillet. Said it was overdone.”

“They sent back...”

Allie pulled me away from the counter. I sometimes got this way when I was hungry. Or even when I wasn’t hungry.

“Did you skip lunch?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Fucking public restaurants. The place is a zoo.”

“Anyway,” she said, “it is a blessing in disguise. Jeff said he might be a little late.”

“Jesus!”

“It’s fine,” she said in a voice which she thinks is soothing but I mostly find irritating, “let’s go get a drink at the bar. You could probably use the practice.” The bar was full. Most of the people had come just to practice eating. I hated to practice.

At 7:30, Becky texted Allie to say she was very sorry but they were going to have to cancel. Jeff wasn't feeling well. I went to go speak to Jessica.

“Jessica,” I said, “our friends just cancelled. Any chance we can eat as a twosome?”

“It’s Saturday night,” she replied. “We really can’t do twosomes.”

“What if we started with dessert and worked backwards?”

“I’m sorry. No. We don't do that here. But I just had a cancellation. I can fit you in with the Johnsons at,” she looked down at her sheet, “7:48. It’s the next seating.” Then she called out “Solvesborgs, your table is ready.”

“Ok. Great. Thanks.” I slinked back to the bar and told Allie. “7:48 with the Johnsons.”

“Ok. That doesn't sound too bad.”

“It does sound bad. It sounds very bad. And now we are behind the Solvesborgs.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Scandinavians,” I whispered. “Notoriously slow eaters.”

“Charming,” she snorted.

“Let’s just go order a pizza.”

“No, we are here. It will be fun. Here, take a pretzel.”

I was starving but wasn’t about to eat a pretzel from a communal jar. I wasn’t an animal.

Pouting might not be very mature but it did seem to make the time go faster. Next thing I knew Jessica was calling out “Johnson. Allie. Your table is ready.”

We followed Jessica, her arms laden with four menus, to our table. But not before Jessica gently told me to tuck in my shirt. We passed a table of sturdy looking blonds I suspected were the Solvesborgs. Their table had drinks but no apps. This was going to get ugly.

The Johnsons were a lovely older couple from the other side of Avenue. The streets are a little narrower and the houses are a little more expensive. They were, we quickly learned within the first minute, both retired and now avid birders.

“I read recently that Leopold was an avid bird watcher,” I said.

“Who?” Asked Mrs. Johnson, please call me Marjorie.

“Nathan Leopold. Of Leopold and Loeb. The murderers.”

Most of the time I don't know why I say the things I do.

Allie kicked me under the table. This usually works. But this time it only slowed me down.

“Loeb was murdered in prison but Leopold eventually landed in Puerto Rico. He wrote the definitive book about birds from that island.”

I wasn't trying to chase the Johnsons away. I was just trying to make conversation.

“Is this one of your regular restaurants?” Asked Allie, quickly changing the subject.

“It is,” said Mr. Johnson. I’m sure he had told us his first name but I must have missed it thinking about my Leopold and Loeb story. “Marjorie loves their eggplant parm. What about you guys?”

“I love it here but this one,” she elbowed me a little harder than needed, “he usually sticks to his private restaurants.”

“Ah,” smiled Mr. Johnson. I think it might have been either Bob or Bill. “So you’re slumming it with us common folk tonight.”

“No, no, not at all,” I replied. “I really like this place. Their cacio e pepe is so good.”

“Hey,” said Marjorie, “that’s Brian’s favorite too!” Brian. Yes, Brian. Then she said, as god is my witness “Twinsies.”

Our waitress, Colleen, said her name tag, came and asked if we wanted to order drinks.

“A bottle of red?” Suggested Brian.

“Maybe two,” retorted Allie cheerily.

“Can we look at a wine list?” Asked Marjorie.

“Of course,” said Colleen.

“And maybe a basket of bread?” I said. I was starving.

“Of course,” replied Colleen. “I’ll bring it the minute the table in front of you,” she pointed at the Solvesborgs, “finishes theirs.”

“They are so damn slow,” I said. “Can we speed them up?”

Allie mouthed ‘Take it easy’ to me but it was going to be a bit of a struggle.

“Look at the way he is buttering his roll,” I said to no one in particular. “An hour to butter a roll. Does he need butter on every exposed piece of bread? Just swipe a dab of it and take a bite for god’s sake.”

This time Allie did not mouth it. She said out loud “Take it easy.”

I was very close to losing it but then Brian, god bless him, muttered something underneath his breath which brightened what had become an increasingly dark evening.

What he said was “Scandinavians.”

Marjorie said “Oh Brian. You are terrible. Pay no attention to him. He has no manners.”

I said “I know what you mean. They can be a little slow.”

“Look,” said Brian, “I’m all for enjoying a meal. Marj and I love to take our time. All I’m asking is for a little courtesy. We can’t have our bread until they finish theirs. There has to be a limit.”

“Amen,” I said thumping the table. Then I signaled Colleen for another bottle of wine.

The bread basket was a salve for troubled times. I had two rolls and was reaching for a piece of olive oil sprinkled focaccia when Allie slapped my hand, muttering something about spoiling my appetite. We finished our bread but the Solvesborgs, now looking as pissed off as me, still didn't have their appetizers. I called Colleen over and asked her what the hold-up was. She said she would go check. She came back holding a basket of bread as a peace offering.

“The 7:15 group ordered a second batch of buffalo mozzarella,” she said apologetically, “so we are running a tiny bit behind.”

“There’s nothing you can do?”

“Well if dinner runs longer than four hours and twelve minutes you will all get a free dessert coupon for next time.”

“That buffalo mozzarella is good,” said Allie. “I think I am going to order it.”

“I feel bad about bad mouthing the Scandinavians,” I said. “I didn’t realize they were being held up.

Once I decided just to be zen and enjoy myself, we had a lovely time with the Johnsons. The cacio e pepe was as good as I remembered. I even shared a story about a yellow-bellied sapsucker which did not involve a murder. I sent over a bottle of wine to the Solvesborgs and told them to take their time.

The pace of eating was painfully slow. On a trip to the bathroom I passed a man on his hands and knees trying to retrieve a meatball which had rolled off the table. He was still at it when I returned. His eating partners looked embarrassed but did nothing to fix the situation. It makes me crazy when people don’t adhere to the five-minute rule for lost food. Just get a new meatball for fucks sake!

Dinner was so slow that the Johnsons decided to take their leave shortly after their mains, eggplant parm and cacio e pepe, arrived. They didn't have time to have dessert.

As they got up to leave we saw that the Solvesborgs too had given up the ghost and decided to leave before dessert.

Allie and I, observing the traditional restaurant etiquette, cleaned up their plates and scooped up their crumbs. Colleen arrived with dessert menus and another twosome who were going to join us for dessert and coffee.

The Goodmans.

Jennifer and Bernard.

Jennifer declined Colleen’s offer of a dessert menu.

“I only have the crème brûlée here,” she declared. “Nothing else even comes close.”

She sounded like she knew what she was talking about, so, with the coast now being totally clear, we ordered cappuccinos and four crème brûlées for the table.

We exchanged pleasantries as we waited for our coffee and dessert. Bernard was a semi-retired accountant and Jennifer was a former school teacher who said her passion was now gardening. I refrained from mentioning I had read Charles Manson was said to have had quite an impressive flower bed.

Bernard asked me what we did for a living. I explained that I too was semi-retired and was trying to reinvent myself as a writer.

“That’s marvellous,” exclaimed Jennifer. “Novels?”

“No,” I replied. “Short stories. Humorous vignettes. That kind of thing.”

Jennifer seemed a bit disappointed “Well that is writing too,” she said. “You keep at it.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Are you working on anything now?” Asked Bernard.

“Yes. I am almost finished this satire about the absurdity of golf. How we golfers put up with things we would never put up with in other parts of our lives. Imagine, for example, if dinner at a restaurant was like golf.”

“Well, good luck with that,” said Jennifer, who clearly thought I was nuts.

I started to explain but then someone in the back yelled out “FORE” and we all ducked under the table to avoid being hit by a wayward meatball.

The end.