me tell
you.
Of course, Nash, being the lady-killer that he was, earned
not only the customary pinch on the cheek but a ‘come to Nonna’ hug. I, on the
other hand, got the Nonna stink eye. She grabbed my face, squeezing my cheeks
with her gnarled, arthritic hand and gave me the once over.
“Too skinny,” she declared giving my waist a poke with a
bony finger. “How you gonna to keep up with un ragazzo sano like my
Cian with no-a meat on-a your bones?”
Nash hid a smile behind his hand and I glared at him, but
Nonna wasn’t done with me yet.
“Angelo!” she bellowed for her son, loud enough for the
entire restaurant to hear. “Angelo, you give-a la bella ragazza dessert. On the house. She too skinny.” She patted my now flaming red cheek
and took my hand and placed it in Nash’s. “ Il mio ragazzo , you take her
and make-a sure she-a eats-a.”
“Of course, Nonna, I will.” Nash kept a straight face as he
bent down to give the little woman a peck on the cheek.
Thankfully, Alberto, Nonna’s grandson, arrived to show us to
our table. As we walked into the dining room, Nash leaned in and gave my bottom
a little pat. “Don’t listen to Nonna. You’ve got nice curves. You’re perfect
just the way you are, little minx.”
I snorted a thanks, but on the inside, my heart went
pitty-pat. I was so distracted that at first I didn’t notice that Alberto was
leading us into the newer section of the restaurant.
“Oh! Hey, Alberto, can we get a table back in the older
dining room?” I gave him my most charming smile.
“No, sorry, we’re all full up. Got a big reservation coming
in.” He looked at me expectantly.
“Okay. No problem.” I gave a little shrug.
“Is something wrong?” Nash looked at me in concern.
“No, it’s fine. I just prefer the old part of the
restaurant.”
We got seated at our table and I looked around, breathing a
sigh of relief. Okay, maybe there really wouldn’t be a problem. Minetti’s had
expanded over the years, growing out of its small, original space to occupy the
adjacent building as well. They had done a wonderful job incorporating the old
with the new. The only problem was that the new space had once upon a time been
a migrant sweat shop, probably back in the late 1800s when things like employee
health and workplace safety weren’t high on the list. As a result, the new
section of Minetti’s tended to house an unusual assortment of spectral
visitors. I had met them all at one time or another. Several were rather
innocuous, simply trying to live vicariously by watching the restaurant’s
patrons eat. One, a man named Olivier – he never gave me his last name,
likened himself to a food critic, judging the plates on presentation and speed
at which the diner cleaned it off. Another, I called Pacing Patty, lived up to
her name, never saying a word, simply pacing back and forth across the dining
room, biting her nails.
The worst was Shriek. Clearly emaciated in life, he spent
his ghostly years pacing around the dining room, stopping to yell at the top of
his lungs into the faces of the dining patrons. They of course, could not hear
his blood curdling screams. It was a different story for me. Luckily, he
didn’t seem to be around today.
“Are you okay?” Nash reached across the table and took my
hand.
“You might not want to do that,” I replied quickly, trying
to pull my hand back.
“Why not?” Nash held my fingers tight in his grasp. He
looked around the room carefully, starting in surprise when Olivier popped his
head up through an adjacent table.
“The marinara looks a little runny,” the ghost said, shaking
his head with a ‘tsk’. “I’d stay away from it today if I were you.”
“Shit!” Nash pushed my hand away in surprise and then gave
his head a little shake. He reached for my hand again. Olivier winked at
him. “Holy crap. Who’s that guy?”
“That’s Olivier,” I replied nonchalantly. “He thinks he’s a
food critic.” Olivier
you.
Of course, Nash, being the lady-killer that he was, earned
not only the customary pinch on the cheek but a ‘come to Nonna’ hug. I, on the
other hand, got the Nonna stink eye. She grabbed my face, squeezing my cheeks
with her gnarled, arthritic hand and gave me the once over.
“Too skinny,” she declared giving my waist a poke with a
bony finger. “How you gonna to keep up with un ragazzo sano like my
Cian with no-a meat on-a your bones?”
Nash hid a smile behind his hand and I glared at him, but
Nonna wasn’t done with me yet.
“Angelo!” she bellowed for her son, loud enough for the
entire restaurant to hear. “Angelo, you give-a la bella ragazza dessert. On the house. She too skinny.” She patted my now flaming red cheek
and took my hand and placed it in Nash’s. “ Il mio ragazzo , you take her
and make-a sure she-a eats-a.”
“Of course, Nonna, I will.” Nash kept a straight face as he
bent down to give the little woman a peck on the cheek.
Thankfully, Alberto, Nonna’s grandson, arrived to show us to
our table. As we walked into the dining room, Nash leaned in and gave my bottom
a little pat. “Don’t listen to Nonna. You’ve got nice curves. You’re perfect
just the way you are, little minx.”
I snorted a thanks, but on the inside, my heart went
pitty-pat. I was so distracted that at first I didn’t notice that Alberto was
leading us into the newer section of the restaurant.
“Oh! Hey, Alberto, can we get a table back in the older
dining room?” I gave him my most charming smile.
“No, sorry, we’re all full up. Got a big reservation coming
in.” He looked at me expectantly.
“Okay. No problem.” I gave a little shrug.
“Is something wrong?” Nash looked at me in concern.
“No, it’s fine. I just prefer the old part of the
restaurant.”
We got seated at our table and I looked around, breathing a
sigh of relief. Okay, maybe there really wouldn’t be a problem. Minetti’s had
expanded over the years, growing out of its small, original space to occupy the
adjacent building as well. They had done a wonderful job incorporating the old
with the new. The only problem was that the new space had once upon a time been
a migrant sweat shop, probably back in the late 1800s when things like employee
health and workplace safety weren’t high on the list. As a result, the new
section of Minetti’s tended to house an unusual assortment of spectral
visitors. I had met them all at one time or another. Several were rather
innocuous, simply trying to live vicariously by watching the restaurant’s
patrons eat. One, a man named Olivier – he never gave me his last name,
likened himself to a food critic, judging the plates on presentation and speed
at which the diner cleaned it off. Another, I called Pacing Patty, lived up to
her name, never saying a word, simply pacing back and forth across the dining
room, biting her nails.
The worst was Shriek. Clearly emaciated in life, he spent
his ghostly years pacing around the dining room, stopping to yell at the top of
his lungs into the faces of the dining patrons. They of course, could not hear
his blood curdling screams. It was a different story for me. Luckily, he
didn’t seem to be around today.
“Are you okay?” Nash reached across the table and took my
hand.
“You might not want to do that,” I replied quickly, trying
to pull my hand back.
“Why not?” Nash held my fingers tight in his grasp. He
looked around the room carefully, starting in surprise when Olivier popped his
head up through an adjacent table.
“The marinara looks a little runny,” the ghost said, shaking
his head with a ‘tsk’. “I’d stay away from it today if I were you.”
“Shit!” Nash pushed my hand away in surprise and then gave
his head a little shake. He reached for my hand again. Olivier winked at
him. “Holy crap. Who’s that guy?”
“That’s Olivier,” I replied nonchalantly. “He thinks he’s a
food critic.” Olivier
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