One of the many benefits of working part-time is that I am now free to “do lunch.” At least once every week or two, Abby and I meet up with my dad on his lunch break. It’s a fun date for all of us.
My dad is a creature of habit, and so 9 times out of 10 we go out to eat at a little sandwich shop called DaVinci’s. It is such a classic place, I thought I’d tell you about it. It will probably remind you of some little restaurant that you know.
Inside, DaVinci’s is not that attractive. The floor is orange tile, the booths are orange, and the walls are decorated with yellowing posters that are at least 20 years old (one of them is a big list of Murphy’s laws, written so small you cannot read them unless you’re in the table immediately below the poster). In one corner are two ancient arcade games, which no one ever plays. The restaurant is small, containing maybe eight tables, and from the counter where you place your order, you can see into the whole kitchen.
The menu is one of those lined grids with the letters that you can press into place and rearrange (although it never changes). The fare is pretty standard- various kids of sandwiches, hamburger, salad.
Every time we go, Dad knows every person in the restaurant. 80% of them are other “old guard” dentists who have been frequenting this same sandwich shop for the past 20 years. Everyone who is anyone in the local dental community shows up for lunch here on a regular basis. So we walk in and everyone looks up from their sandwiches, burgers, or salad and greets us. Before sitting down, we stop at every table like politicians at a parade, except it’s us with the baby and everyone else pinching her cheeks. Sometimes it takes 10 minutes before we get to the front to place our order, even though, like I said, it’s a small place.
Not everyone in my family appreciates eating at Da Vinci’s very often. But I am my father’s daughter, and there’s something very comforting about the same old, same old of those orange plastic booths and my burger and fries. I’d like to lift my styrofoam cup to many more identical lunch dates!
of the table I wanted) to the IKEA returns center, which felt more like Ellis Island than an American retail outlet. I had to take a number and find a place to sit on some really wide benches that were crowded with people and their Swedish-labeled merchandise. I warily noted the strict exchange policy, which included the necessity of my original receipt, which I had lost (in my defense, I’m camping here…I can barely find my water bill). I watched in rapt fascination as the returns clerk sustained a heated argument with a dissatisfied customer, who was refusing to leave the line until she fulfilled his request. Finally she had to call security, and the security guard escorted the guy to a higher-ranking manager. I think they said he had TB or something. (Just kidding. His return was not in the original packaging)
retrieve my table from the returns desk. I groaned but reached for my wallet (Stupidity fee, I figured), and that’s when Melissa earned her Employee of the Year award in my eyes. She got on the phone and spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to override the transaction and return the table that had been mine just thirty minutes ago without an extra charge.
