Wednesday, February 12, 2003
|
Wednesday, February 12, 2003 |
|
My big, fat Italian breakfast . . . By
BILLY MURPHY Here I sit in real America. Because what could be more melting pot U.S.A. than a German boy ordering a good ol' Southern plate of eggs and sausage in an Italian diner from a Mexican waitress named Gabby? This is my breakfast at Johnny Romano's Diner on Huddleston Road and welcome to it. Far from the deafening roar of all the populist talk concerning the problems we have living together as different peoples, I sit silently gulping down my fat-laden, carbohydrate-free morning meal. We are one as a people. I am one with my pork and cholesterol. (For my friend in Hawaii who advances the vegetarian lifestyle on her talk show, yes, you can use me to illustrate a typically bad example). There are few pleasures left for the middle-aged man growing less young every day, especially since Matt Lauer has officially ruined the buzz haircut for us all. All our money goes for the kids, Uncle Sam or to doctors who say a lot of words to us like "prostate" and anything that ends in "-itis." So here I am with newspaper in booth and the simple pleasure of musing philosophically. Like, has anyone else noticed how Wal-Mart has now replaced waiting in long lines, being checked out by underpaid cashiers, with standing in long self-service lines being checked out by overcomplicated cashier robots? And what do those humongous "Always" neon signs mean, hanging over the entrances at Wal-Mart? I just want to know. I also wonder why every time a plane takes off or lands the pilot says, "Flight attendants, prepare for cross check." It just doesn't instill much confidence in me when even the airline workers are checking to make sure they are wearing a cross for protection. I am shaken from these deep thoughts by Gabby asking me if I want my usual extra butter on my links. I decline, because, after all, I am about the health. Actually, I seem to have become the worst customer on the face of the earth. Nothing ever seems "right" to me. It's not the question, "Is the glass half-empty or the glass half-full?" It's the question, "Is the ice-to-water ratio correct?" It's got to be right. And I'm sure my waitress gets tired of my running joke when I leave, saying, "Can I get change for a quarter, so I can leave a tip." I could swear once when I left, I heard her call me "Gringo" under her breath. But of course, I kid. Nevertheless, I love having my big, fat Italian breakfast. Everyone should try one sometime. And while you're at it, try the big, fat Romano salad for lunch. It is the ultimate "big salad," sized to make even Elaine Benes green with greens envy. [Visit Billy Murphy on the Internet at http://ebilly.net.]
|
||