When I do gather the courage to try out a new place, I tend to go meerkat. Constantly on the alert...distracted by every flicker of movement, every sudden sound, bright lights...I have trouble concentrating on the person/people I'm with, fidget continuously with utensil placement, and am rendered practically paralyzed regarding menu selections. Fun, right?
There are a host of strategies that help ease my unease but, unfortunately, it is embarrassing (and feels sort of entitled-ish) to request "special treatment." Which is how I ended up being seated right in the middle of the action...kitty-corner to a teenage boy's birthday party...across from a wall of mirrors...my back to not one, but TWO, points of entry. My husband watched me shred and drop my napkin a hundred times before encouraging me to self-advocate for a more suitable table to accommodate my crazy. Even though it was busy in the restaurant, our server was gracious and kind when I made my choked request.
Newly situated...back to the wall, out of the way, able to observe everything...I could relax a little. "Better?" Brad asked. I nodded, still slightly embarrassed but proud that I'd been able to handle the situation without breaking down in tears or racing out of the restaurant (or both). Keeping an eye on the birthday party, the toddler who clearly wasn't a fan of Italian food, and the table for eight who only had two people currently sitting at it...I considered the menu. Stuffed mushrooms were my standard choice but another item caught my attention (two more people joined the table for eight)...fried ricotta balls. Yum! I showed my choice to Brad who was pleasantly surprised that I'd opted to change culinary lanes.
The server re-appeared so I decided to ask some clarifying questions about the appetizer. "How do you eat it?" I asked, a little confused but always brave when cheese is involved, "Do you serve it with crackers?" She looked puzzled. "No, you just eat it with a fork." Odd. Well, it was too late now...I was now invested in this order. But...who eats a cheese ball with a fork? (Italians, apparently.) "I'll have the Arancini," I smiled.
"Arincino is Italian for small orange," I told my husband as I sought to educate myself quickly about my order. "So my cheese balls will each be the size of a tangerine." "Or a mandarin orange," Brad added, ever the romantic. I wondered if the wait-staff would request the four people to re-locate to free up the larger table. I also noticed that only one of the birthday boy's friends had thought to bring him a present but he (the gift-giver) also seemed to be the out-cast of the group...pushed to the end of the table and mostly ignored. The toddler couldn't be ignored as he splatted fistfuls of fettuccine on the floor. I turned back to Brad suddenly. "Speaking of languages, did you know that by spelling out the English word socks, you are actually saying That's what it is in Spanish? Eso si que es!" "That's what what is?" Brad asked. I frowned. "It." Brad frowned too. "Socks?" Now I was so exasperated that I didn't realize that four more people and my tangerine-sized cheese balls had arrived. "It," I stressed, "life...the situation."
My linguistic lesson done (I wish I'd order linguini for the alliteration), I turned excitedly to my meal. They were the right size. I tapped one with my fork...crispy. I carefully used my utensil to extract a steaming, bite-sized sample. Brad watched my face, delighted, as my taste buds translated what they were experiencing. "That is not a cheese ball," I reported. Apparently, I had not read for clarity. Not ricotta, like I had envisioned, imagined and anticipated but...risotto, the warm weird rice/pasta wannabee. I felt betrayed...victimized by my vittles. Brad laughed. Finally, all his Spanish tutoring over Covid has paid off. "Eso no es lo que dije?" he asked, pointing to the pint-sized orange perpetrator on my plate. Glumly, I set my fork down and glared at my husband, "You know what?" I said, "You really sock!"
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