July 20, 2019
For those of you who have never kept a diary, you should understand that it usually tilts to the dramatic, the tragic, and the things that stick in your mind.
For example, we were having a perfectly calm dinner yesterday in what we now call the meat locker. They had said we were having bbq chicken with lemon risotto, and since nobody there including the cooks knows what risotto is, we got ouzo, which was fine and roasted chicken.
At the end we got a lemon bar (so-called because it was yellow) in a plastic cup. I asked the server who was rushing by faster than a speeding bullet for iced tea with lemon. By the time I said “lemon” she had reached the kitchen which is about 50 yards away.
All normal stuff for frozen meat storage department. Ike, who sits at at a nearby table, looked at me and smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “She doesn’t want to talk to you, I guess.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“I’m still waiting for my food,” he said.
Ike is funny because at the end of the evening he compliments, with a straight face the obnoxious server, and tells her how she’s one of his favorites. He seems to have a way with women, no matter how horrible they are to him, he finds something to compliment them on.
I have my own methods which are straight out of Mark Twain. Of course there’s rarely any regular ice-cream, so I’ve taken to asking for the diabetic ice-cream. to mix with my so-called yellow lemon bar.
The waitresses normally bring me one. And some like M. who is very sweet brings two hidden under a napkin. Or puts them in my roller for me.
But this bitch simply pretends not to hear me and starts removing the dishes. Five minutes later she returns and I ask her for one of those sugar-free ice creams. My lemon bar is consumed by now, but I still want ice-cream on a 100 degree day.
This time, she stops to address me with a stony face: You are not diabetic. That ice-cream is for diabetics only.
Me: But my doctor says I’m on the borderline of being diabetic (not true) and that I should cut down on sugar. Each of us have a card on the table with whether we have special requirements: no salt, no sugar, no decent food. She looks at my card which doesn’t have a “D” for diabetic and says a la Seinfeld and the soup nazi (long before her time) “no ice-cream for you.”
Again, Ike looks over and shrugs his shoulders . Ike sits at a table to my left, with the view of the park. Patsy sits across from him. She’s about 99 percent blind. In her mid-90s. And fairly deaf as well.
From the mid-west (she puts mayonnaise on corned beef) and was the president of a bank.
Tremendous palsy in both hands; eating is always an issue. Nobody ever comes to lead her up to the dining room until the meal is half over. And yesterday, she just started crying at the table uncontrollably. Her Irish face went red. As did her eyes and nose.
Is there anything I can do to help you, Ike asked.
No, she said. I just don’t know what anything is on my plate, and I have no control over anything. This time Ike gave me a sympathetic look, which said: What can you do?
Which is the incident that I thought this entry was going yo be about, but as you can see, it wasn’t. Not really.