Tell Me It's Not Too Late

I've waited too long to mention the latest milestone in my life. While I quickly approach a change of tune where I stop counting years of life and start counting years till death, I still manage to recognize a coming-of-age event every so often.

A few weeks ago I made a triumphant return to the Old Spaghetti Factory.

You might ask what is so triumphant about a return to a restaurant that isn't really anything special. Their menu is par, the aesthetics aren't really THAT great (sure they have a tram car inside the facility but I've never really sat in it, nor do I think I'd have comfortable elbow room to enjoy a large bowl of pasta while "riding" in it), and the employees all attend the closest high school. Face it, there are plenty of better places to eat equally-priced and better-tasting Italian food. Some would even argue that calling the Old Spaghetti Factory an Italian restaurant is blaspheme of the unholiest order. Don't get me wrong, the food is OK, and it's very family-friendly (I promise to cut down on the hyphenations), but more on that later.

This particular restaurant location has been a staple in downtown Taylorsville for as long as I can remember. Throughout it's time there it has generated enough profit to be the most successful food joint on that entire block. Many other restaurants have come and gone (R.I.P. Frontier Pies, Wingers, Panda Mongolian BBQ, Ponderosa, Hometown Buffet, Po' Folks, Round Table Pizza, Mountain View Bowling Cafe, am I missing anything?), yet the OSF has remained a juggernaut in a restaurant graveyard.

"Don't you know who I am?!?"

My friends in attendance with me this fateful day at the OSF wondered why I was making such a big deal of this occasion. I walked into the place slowly and took longing glances at the interior surroundings. It was then that I saw "the table" where it all happened. At that table my life took a turn.

It was a quiet evening...

...the exact date escapes me, but for the sake of storytelling I'll say 4 or 5 years ago. The summer was transitioning into fall and elementary school was about to start. My sister and her family were living with my parents while I was doing the same. It's always fun living with a big family. It takes me back to being a young lad in a family of 9 with the chaos, the noise, the action, and the personalities. Every day was an adventure then, and at this time it came full circle. My dad wanted to take the whole family to dinner. The kids had the blessing of choosing where we would all dine on his night. They chose the Old Spaghetti Factory, and there was much rejoicing.

Prior to this time, my only forays to the OSF were in high school for the usual dinner dates such as sweethearts dance, or the sadie hawkins dance (I decapitalized them on purpose, they were both horrible nights). I was excited to spend time with my sister's family outside of the house, simply because as I stated before, it was always an adventure.

We arrived at the OSF and sat in the upper west wing at a large table to accommodate all of us. My nephew took pride in his mature appetite. Previous adventures at restaurants he insisted on ignoring the kids menu and ordering something from the adult menu. He never disappointed. This time his parents were hesitant, but with grandpa footing the bill lil' nephew could have anything he liked. Since he was the first to order he was the first to receive his food. His eyes bulged at the "adult" plate of pasta in front of him. He didn't bother to wait for the rest of us and just dove into it.

He was, and still is, a tank.

I realized my hands weren't properly prepared to handle the food I was about to eat. At the time I worked in an office mail room. Everyone knows that mail is the second dirtiest thing, next to money. I excused myself from the table to wash my hands. Upon exiting the men's room I saw lil' nephew entering the men's room. His face was ghost white and he was starting to sweat. "I gotta use the bathroom." was his excuse when we crossed paths. I worried for about two seconds, then I became distracted by the smell of my spaghetti with brown butter and mizithra cheese.

I followed my nose back to the table and started to dine. Nephew returned looking better, but before he could sit in his seat he stopped dead in his tracks and looked very deep in thought. I knew right away what he was thinking, but was slow to react. He immediately put his right hand over his mouth. Nobody else at the table seemed to notice except me. I started to scramble but was too late. Soon both hands were over his mouth, and then it was slow motion.

With a wave of his body from his feet to his face, he convulsed and mystery substance shot sideways in both directions from his face at such an angle you could argue it shot from his ears, but I knew better. Now he had everyone's attention. Finally grasping that my reaction was too slow, I simply put my head down to avoid the fireworks. Nephew's dad and grandpa both jumped up. One ran to the rescue, the other ran toward the door, then realizing he was somewhat neglecting familial duty backtracked and held the tray that contained some of nephew's uneaten food saying, "Just go on this, just go on this!" The whole time his back was turned to the scene; he was refusing to witness the display.

Poor nephew didn't even have time to settle what was now nobly fighting its way back out, in its original form, and on its original plate no less. Everyone at the table was now reacting in their own unique way, while my head was now beneath the table. The Ooohs (Eewws) and Aahhs increased in volume and staccato, as if they were responding to connecting left and right hooks in a street fight.

The audio alone made me thankful I was buried under Norwegian wood (isn't it good?), until my niece dropped what I now call the M. Night Shyamalbomb:

"Mommy, I see noodles!!"

The drama subsided shortly after I plugged my ears. I raised my head to see that the OSF west wing transformed into a post apocalyptic war zone. Everyone looked at the mess (like the end of every apocalyptic war movie) and knew the action was over and the cleanup was next. Nephew, overcome with a combination of embarrassment and exhaustion, collapsed into his chair. It was over. Grandpa, still with his back to the scene asked if everyone was okay then dropped the vomit plate and stumbled off without waiting for an answer. I say grandpa stumbled out; he really looked like he was walking on stilts and swaying side to side on his way out the door. It was then I realized there were strangers sitting in the tables surrounding us who witnessed the whole thing. Then one at a time they slowly made their escapes. Soon it was just us.

We gave our apologies to anyone within earshot and made our own hasty exit, much to the chagrin of the management, who were kind and understanding on the surface, but their scowls as we turned our backs burned as we left. We met grandpa outside the door hunched over a bush, hands on knees and breathing steady. I immediately thought, "Oh no, not you too," but he assured us nothing happened... yet. He just needed some fresh air. We were all ready to leave but he insisted he wasn't going anywhere yet. The last time I saw grandpa in that same position I was 18 on a family trip in Disney World after straight tries on Splash Mountain, Star Tours and Magic Mountain. Poor guy missed the whole electric light parade.

We left the OSF defeated and secretly vowed never to return to that place again. I wasn't mad at nephew, or anyone for that matter. It was just an unfortunate situation; one that would go down in family yore. My niece's words would haunt my dreams for a few nights afterward.

Back to present day. I'm sitting in the OSF's lower west wing with friends, contemplating the momentous occasion. I never thought I'd step foot in this place again, yet there I was. I again ordered the brown butter spaghetti with mizithra cheese, not because it's what I previously had, but because I really really like mizithra cheese. I had a short moment of silence for my nephew. I love that kid, and I quietly dedicated that meal in tribute to his life. He's a teenager now, and likely hasn't forgotten his experience. He doesn't need to revisit it. I did it for him.

Recreating the experience is part of the therapy.

(Except for Raul who excitedly benefited from a table-waiter mistake and got three strawberry lemonades at once. Way to blow the recuperation dude.)

You say TMI, I say victory. Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to.

Editor's note: After consulting with the involved parties I came to realize that some parts of this story were factually inaccurate. I updated the post with those changes. While I've been accused of being one who tells tall tales, I try to maintain some semblance of journalistic integrity. Thank you to those for setting me straight.