Category: just for fun

Morning at The Kalamata.

Saturdays bring a delight to our weekends, especially when we change our routine.  For something a little different, last Saturday, mid-morning, we headed out to The Kalamata Kafé.  We weren’t disappointed.

The simple brunch was nothing short of pleasant; it was one of those simple meals that somehow feels like a small private celebration.  Soft violin music emanated from the ceiling speakers.  The waitresses were modestly dressed in pure white short togas tied at the waist with gold belts.  My companion ordered a knish—a strangely sweetened roll made from a dough similar to pillowy Hawaiian‑style bread.  It was filled with soy chorizo and melted queso chihuahua (an imported cheese), a combination that gave it a savory kick and a five-fingered punch beneath the sweetness.  I took a small bite and so did my companion; it was unlike anything either of us tried before, unexpected in the best way, and definitely memorable.  I ordered an almond croissant sprinkled with sugar and sliced toasted almonds, still warm from the oven, its flaky layers giving way to a soft, fragrant center touched with just enough sugary depth.  A cup of weak lemongrass tea sweetened with mesquite honey for the two of us gave the oomph our light brunch needed.

Afterward, we strolled up the bay, the morning light glinting off the water, then we looped back along the main road where the breeze carried the scent of salt and sun-warmed sand.  The walk stirred up memories for both of us—those long rides we used to take on the Indian Chieftain, chasing the horizon with nothing but vast open road ahead.  Only this time, the adventure came with greater comfort, steadier footing, and a quiet sense of security that felt like its own kind of freedom.  We eventually found our car, hopped in, and headed back home.  Later that day, the soy chorizo-queso chihuahua knish thing didn’t agree with my companion and we spent the late afternoon paying for it dearly.

We’ll go back to The Kalamata, but with a different menu ordering plan.

 

0

Shhh… in a Modest Trattoria.

It was a genuine treat to go out for lunch recently, mostly because eating out is not a daily, nor even a weekly, occurrence for us.  I enjoy cooking at home, but every now and then it’s nice to let someone else do the sautéing while I simply sit there and enjoy the novelty of it all.

We chose a little local Italian place, the kind where the fat breadsticks arrive in generous baskets and the garlic in the air is present but polite.  We settled into our booth, ordered our meals, and chatted about this and that.

Somewhere between topics, a waitress passed by and began checking on the tables in her section.  I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but her voice carried just enough for me to catch her asking a couple nearby, “Pash‑ta Fa‑shool for you” and “Mini-shrone soup for you.”

I paused.  I blinked.  I nearly choked on my ice water with lemon slice.

I have heard many pronunciations of Italian dishes in my life, but this one was new— an unexpected hybrid of culinary enthusiasm and what sounded like an anchovy lodged squarely between her incisors, forcing every “s” into a prolonged “shhhh.”

“Pash‑ta Fa‑shool,” she repeated, as if auditioning for a role in a whispering contest.

I smiled into my linen napkin.  It was the kind of small, harmless moment that makes dining out worth the trouble: good food, good company, and the occasional linguistic adventure courtesy of a well‑meaning waitress and a menu she was determined to conquer—one shhh at a time.

 

0

The Sheriff of Decibels.

I once lived in a high-rise condominium where everyone kept to himself, and all was peachy with the world.  But there was one night when I received a phone call from a neighbor, informing me once again that my television was on “too loud” and he can’t sleep.  I was watching an old movie, as I usually did in the early evenings if I stayed home.  This was a recurring performance on his part, a kind of neighborhood opera in which he played both the aggrieved victim and the self-appointed Sheriff of Decibels.  At that point, I was starting to wonder whether the sound was actually carrying or whether my neighbor simply enjoyed the thrill of a good complaint because the room where my television is did not butt up against his bedroom, but against his butler’s pantry.

Here’s the twist: I could hear his television, too.  Talk shows, game shows, dramatic monologues, the whole cinematic buffet.  And yet I’ve never felt compelled to call him and deliver a noise citation.  I’d assume he was just… living.  Watching things.  Being a person in a building full of other people doing what people do to live.  It’s part of the deal when you choose communal living over a cabin in the woods on ten acres.

Still, every time my phone lit up with his name on the screen, I rolled my eyes.  At that time of evening, it could not be a friendly hello.  It’s always a report, as if he was monitoring my condo with a sound meter and a clipboard.

I played with the idea that conducting an experiment or two.  I thought of turning down the volume to a whisper—barely audible even to me—and wait.  Would my phone ring?  I don’t know, but I was willing to bet a dime to a donut that he was hearing phantom noises, or he had superhuman hearing, or perhaps the echoes of his own television bounced around his condo like a boomerang.

There’s a special kind of fatigue that comes from dealing with neighbors who are both hypersensitive and oblivious to their own habits.  It’s like being scolded by someone about your manners when they are chewing food and smacking loudly with their mouth open.  You want to point it out, but you know it won’t land.

So, I’ve reached a conclusion: either my television had mystical projection abilities, or my neighbor developed a hobby of policing imaginary disturbances.  I continued living my life at a reasonable volume.

And honestly, at that point, the only thing louder than my television was that special kind of comedy.  Personally, I think he had his wig on too tight.

2

Website Built with WordPress.com.

Up ↑