Dining Out

There is a certain romanticism to dining under the stars, but not while peering through the elevated train tracks of the 7 train to see them. We were not at some quaint little restaurant tucked away in a quiet corner of Barcelona, but rather on Roosevelt Avenue at Casa Polo. Two delivery men were arguing over an electric bicycle, each with a bag of rapidly cooling dinner for some poor souls. Apparently, this was the prized steed with which to quickly deliver an order to its destination and return with the greatest of speed. Eventually one man won out and the other furiously took a less desired stallion from the mechanized stable.

 

Upon entering the velvet roped area we were quickly escorted to a table. It was set inside an enclosed area of partitions constructed of 2x4’s and plywood painted green with potted plants inserted in the top section at intervals to add to the ambiance. The aroma of blossoming flowers was eclipsed by the smell of traffic fumes, as the dining area was built in the street, to comply with the pandemic outdoor dining rules. The lovely paintings inside the restaurant were replaced with the spray paintings of a street artist.

 

Francisco our waiter arrived to introduce himself. He looked very skittish and nervous, his eyes darting around. His hair a dark brown was parted in the middle and he wore a handlebar mustache waxed at the ends and curled up in an arch. He proceeded to rattle off the day’s specials. We ordered drinks and Francisco handed us heavy jacketed menus then took off like a scared rabbit. At this point I noticed that the padded seat of my chair was wet, not having dried out from an early afternoon rain.

 

The 7 trains were rolling by at regular intervals as it was rush hour and even though it was a pandemic, they were abundant. DaDunk,DaDunk,DaDunk,DaDunk, Squeak, Scream,Shriek. Like a four step Foxtrot, the trains lumbered and danced down the track. Conversation was nearly impossible and required screaming to be heard and we eventually resorted to texting for communication. I opened the jacket of the menu to find a vast array of choices to pick from. A clear pocket inside the jacket included two papers, the first being a list of the daily specials that Francisco had told us of, followed by a Living Will. I thought that this was a curious paper to find there and it had no doubt been left mistakenly by a previous customer. I was about to alert the waiter when I realized that a business card was stapled onto the will with a picture of Francisco posed in an appreciative stance with a balloon caption inscribed, “Gracias.” A prudent man, Francisco had accounted for all possible outcomes and had made arrangements to secure his tip in case of any eventuality. Apparently, this was not the safest of dining arrangements, explaining Francisco’s nervous, shell shocked persona.

 

Bread and soup arrived now. Although there were no clouds in the sky, a light refreshing mist began to fall as another train rolled by and I realized that this was condensation from the train car’s air conditioning system working overtime. The street was a misty scene in an impressionist painting. Momentarily something flew past my nose and then soup splashed everywhere as my bowl split in half, the result of a large rusted bolt that had fallen from the tracks.  Francisco came running out, all apologies, cleaning me up with a towel and blotting the soup, while removing the shards from the table. I refused a second bowl and just ate my bread.

 

The second course was a salad and I munched away enjoying the dressing, wondering if the suspicious looking spice on it was either a low quality Paprika or a high-quality rust filtering down from the tracks.

 

Now I am the first one to agree that recycling is a good idea and healthier for the environment, but when a used match book and cigarette butt turned up buried deep in my salad, I knew environmentalism had gone too far, and the restaurant’s Michelin three-star rating was in serious jeopardy. Apparently a previous customer’s salad had been left unfinished, and with the increasing price of lettuce it was presumably wasteful to throw it away. In the future a quick check for matchbooks in one’s salad would be in order. I made a mental note.

 

Francisco covered his face, beside himself with embarrassment, and ran away with the salad. I could see him in the kitchen holding up the matchbook while yelling at the cook until his opponent turned on him with a meat cleaver.

 

I should have left at this point but this experience had gone way beyond dining, and had turned into dinner theater! If I ended the night hungry, it would still be an entertaining night out and well worth the price of admission. Just then a large delivery truck pulled up and I found myself eyeball to eyeball with the greasy axle of a huge tire, above which chickens in wooden cages squawked loudly, sensing that they were approaching their doom. I imagined they were saying “Take the other crates, I don’t think I would taste good today,” in a fluent chicken. From way up in the cab, the driver yelled down to me “Hey Papi, do you think these sticks and plants can protect you? This truck could crush you like a bug!”

 

“Gracias, Gracias, Yo Se,Yo Se, I am becoming increasingly aware of that”, I uttered, struggling with my high school Spanish.

 

“Ok man, good luck. You’re going to like my chickens, they are the best, mucho bueno!” exclaimed the driver.

 

I waved to him as he pulled in by the fire hydrant to unload the condemned. From the corner of my eye I could see a pigeon up in the rafters of the train trestle suspiciously eyeing my water glass like the Red Baron calculating an attack on a WW1 British fighter plane. This was my cue to leave since I didn’t care for mixed drinks. I paid Francisco who was all apologies as usual, and headed to McDonalds for some Chicken McNuggets, a safe although less than fine dining experience.

 

Jim

August 2020