Diner at Palatchi's

There are other places to eat at in our small metropolis; Chez Brucie is only one. I showed up there one quiet evening with a statuesque lady whose long thoroughbred legs and store bought boobs could take her just about anyplace she might wish to go. I had snaked the dame away from my good friend Joey who I had thought was looking the other way. The joint was not a bad place for a French restaurant. Valet parking was free, and the maitre'd had promptly met us at the door, bowed from the ankles and guided us to the lady's preferred table located next to the piano bar. The lady held forth in conversation with the waiter, sent a message to the chef that she looked forward to enjoying one of the man's great creations, and asked that the wine steward be sent over to assist in the selection of one of the establishments finer offerings. The wine she preferred was presented with the required flare by the dumb waiter and a suitable offering was made to guarantee that the music from the piano bar provided the proper balance of piano and cello the dame preferred.

The crisp salad was presented on cold plates and the entree had been presented with the chef's assurance that the lady would find the offering, something mixed with secret herbs and spices that had been gently sauteed in a wine sauce and presented en flambe a way that almost took my eyebrows off. The chef had described it as a unique culinary experience, whatever the hell that meant. An hour later, after leaving a proper gratuity, I sent the dame home in a taxi, gave her up for Lent and went off in search of my ex friend Joey who was probably laughing his ace off. The guy had managed the unscrupulous when he had dumped the ditsy broad on me, his one good and trusted friend,

A second more comfortable place is the deli over on the main drag close to the old Kresge building. This is one fine place to enjoy anything and everything on a menu that stretches from the counter top to the Chinese laundry a block down the street. The food is awesome, the waitresses are beautiful and the service is superb. Joey and I go there often. The waitresses fool around and are gracious enough to put up with Joeys nonsense; we always leave a generous tip.

La Taverna is the name of the joint that Joey and I most prefer. We go their on quiet evenings hoping Vinny's beautiful daughter Angelica will be our waitress. We know better because Vinny had already taken the time a year or so ago to lay one of his giant meat hooks on each of our shoulders and while looking us squarely in the eye, squeezed a little past gently and had mentioned something about how his beautiful daughter who he loved so much was gonna join the convent. The man had not blinked and that was the name of that tune.

The little Italian restaurant sits a couple of streets off of the main drag of our little metropolis in a kind of quiet splendor. Originally a private home, Vinny Palatchi and his pop had torn out a couple of walls to expand the dining area, mixed up a little concrete to repair the foundation, put together a proper bar, kidnapped a couple of ladies who knew how to treat a man like a man to work as waitress and wound up with a spaghetti palace that fed a heck of a lot of pisons from the surrounding neighborhood.

Vinny is the bartender, bouncer and consigliere. He is also one very huge man who does not require assistance in the performance of his duties. Nor is he an attractive man, but he has the redeeming values of a laugh that would startle the gods, a twinkle in the eyes that had captured the heart and soul of his beautiful wife, Gina and a fondness for music provided on an old accordion.

His pop Mose is much smaller; only about five feet separate the top of his bald head from the floor; his talents lie in the kitchen where he puts together a good basic marinara sauce for the macaroni, polenta, and lasagna. The bread served that is so good for the teeth is baked in Mose's ovens. The antipasto is super, and the shrimp scampi, veal Marsala, meat balls and all the rest are worth fighting over.

Vinny will be the first to greet us by draping a well muscled arm around each of us. We will be guided to a corner table, seated and a carafe of the houses finest will be presented. Vinny's pop will be right behind his son to enquire if we are hungry. We always are and little Mose's will bounce off to his kitchen. It will take a few minutes longer for the heavy aroma of oregano, garlic, basil and olive oil to follow him. What follows is a gift for the gods that begins with an antipasto made up of salami cut into strips, provolone cheese presented likewise, olives halved and pitted, roasted red peppers combined with a little Asiago cheese. The antipasto will be followed by Pasta e Fagioli, or Minestrone, soups Joey and me have been raised on. The entree will be ravioli, manicotti with wild mushrooms, rigatoni topped with a pile of Pecorino Romano cheese, or whatever else Vinny's pop might provide. If we are able, a little spumoni or a cannoli will be the last thing to disappear; all of it is a tour of Italian food. All of it will have been presented with the warmth, grace, and generosity of fellow compatriots. The only thing missing will be a Tuscan sun, as Joey and I face the challenge of devouring this feast; failure to leave a clean plate and a proper gratuity will be considered an insult. Joey and I have never nor will we ever fail in this most serious of undertakings.