[HANASHIR:3208] Re: HANASHIR digest 567

[NRizkalla <NRizkalla...>]

  Visiting from New York, I wallow in the heated pool of  my parent's Ft.
Lauderdale retirement community where a group of bathing cap clad seniors
exchange their
 Early Bird dining experiences: places that offer good value, places that
have gone downhill, places that are  owned by the mafia, places that cater
to
those on
 low-cholesterol,low-sodium diets. The pool is just one  of 14 within
Wyndham
Creek, a 5,000 "unit" sterile  condo complex situated on acres of
exceptionally
 manicured grounds. Surrounding the entire community is  an 8-foot wall,
where rent-a-cops at the  gate leer at  me  suspiciously, like  they first
did 12 years ago,
 when my folks fled Brooklyn.  As I sip water from the  poolside fountain,
an
elderly woman approaches me.  "Sonny, can you do me a favor? Go into the
men's sauna
 and ask if there's a Sol Finkel inside. If he's in  there, ask him when
he's
coming out. Tell him his  wife Minnie needs him to drive her to the butcher.
Would you be a nice young man and do that for me?"   At 4:30, my parents and
I drive to nearby
 Century  Village, to pick up their  friends Murray and Evelyn Moskowitz who
are joining us for Early Bird dinner. We will be dining at "Antonio's" in
Deerfield Beach,
 normally a 10 minute ride via I-95. But my mother, who never learned to
drive, has a morbid fear of highways, and insists my father take the
streets.
At age 74,
 this is probably not a badidea.  Yet, even on the streets, my father is
oblivious to cars he cuts off,   like the kid in the Camaro who flashes him
the finger.
 After 45 minutes of  stop-and-go  traffic, we arrive  at "Antonio's."  The
restaurant is located in a strip  mall,sandwiched between "PIP Printing" and
a  podiatrist's office with an  overhead sign that simply  reads "Podiatrist
Office." My father steers his
 tank-size Mercury Marquis around the lot, but is not content unless he
parks
in the closest  possible spot to the restaurant. We circle around and around
past rows of late model Cadillacs,  Buick Roadmasters and Oldsmobile
Eighty-Eights.  Finally, he catches someone pulling out,ultimately  saving
us
a few steps. "Antonio's," apparently one of the area's hotspots, is bustling
with senior  citizens. Bald men wearing checkered pants and  white patent
leather shoes. Women draped in gold
 accessories sporting stiff white hairdos.  "Hello, I'm Ronald, and I'll be
your waiter this  evening. Would anyone carefor a drink?" All at the table
shake their heads no.   "I'll have an Amstel,  please."     "You know, beer
is not included in the dinner," my mother whispers to me. "If you want beer,
I'll buy you a bottle  at the supermarket."
"But I want a beer now, with  dinner."    "You can wait until we get home."
"Yes ... no?" asks the waiter.    "Yes, please," I say. My mother flashes
me
a look.
 "I'll pay for it myself, OK?"   "Don't be such a big shot."  My parents
study the menu as if they're   picking stocks in which to invest their  life
savings. After several minutes, they begin calculating the options: With the
Prix Fixe dinner they can get the filet of sole, plus salad and coffee for
$7.95 per  person. But if they order a la
carte, the  filet of sole is only $5.95, the coffee  $1.25, the salad $2.50
-- but it's a
large  salad with tomatoes. However, if they share a salad, then substitute
the
French onion soup from the Prix Fixe menu for a $1.50 surcharge... "Are you
ready to order?" asks our  waiter. "We need a little more time," says my
mother. The calculations resume for several more minutes, before my  parents
finally decide upon a"Consumer  Reports Best Buy."
      "What's the weather like in New York lately?" asks my father, who
seems
to  have a never-ending fascination with  the subject.  "Seasonal. You know,
30's, 40's."    "You must be freezing your tuchas off."    "No, it's OK."
"Well, looks like you brought the cold    weather down with you. It's been
sunny  until now."           "They say it's going down to the 50's tonight,
could you believe?" adds  Evelyn.
  "Speaking of cold, there's such a draft in  here, you can lose your head
yet.
 > Please   have them lower the air conditioning,"  my mother complains to
the waiter.   "Mitchell, put on your sweater, you'll  catch a cold."     The
waiter says the air conditioning  can't be lowered, but offers to move our
table. We all get up and follow him to  another area of the dining room. A
busboy tags along with our bread  basket and water glasses in tow.   "Sir!
Excuse me, sir! These rolls  are very hard," my mother tells the busboy.
     "Rolls too haat?" repeats the  busboy.                 "Too hard," not
"too hot," I try to  clarify.     "Rolls too haat," nods the busboy,
removing the bread basket. Minutes   later he returns with a new basket
of   equally hard rolls at room temperature.
        Finally ready to place our orders, Murray  chooses the baked scrod,
to which
 his  wife comments, "Oh, no, you don't like that. You like it broiled."  "I
want to try it baked."  "You're not going to like it, and you're going to be
disappointed."             "How do you know?"     "I know you."    Murray
changes his order.  "Is the Filet of Sole fresh?" my mother grills the
waiter.   "Yes, ma'am, it's very good."              "Because if it's too
fishy, I don't  want it."
                          When the soup arrives, my  mother sends it  back,
asking                                   them to reheat  it. She insists I
send mine  back too, but I  assure her it's fine. Later in the meal,  she
informs the waiter that "The last  time we were here, the portions were much
larger." The waiter walks away rolling his eyes, and virtually ignores us
 for the rest of the evening.    "Generally, you really get a lot for your
money down here," my mother says  proudly. "Not like in New York. What do
you pay when you go out to dinner at   home?" she asks me.   "Let's just say
the appetizer usually
costs more than your entire Early Bird."   "My god, I don't know how you can
afford -- or why you still want to  live in that sewer. The crime, the dirt,
the traffic ... it's such a nicer way of  life down here," she gloats. "When
you go on a date, do you go Dutch?"      "No."    "So what does it cost you?
I bet $50 for  the two of you?"  "If not more."  "What do they charge for
the
movies  there now?" asks Murray. "$8.00."    "That's a crime," says Evelyn.
We  have the $2.00 movies on Tuesdays up in   Boca. We just saw, ummm, ...
oh
what  was the name of it? ... Mr. Gump,  with  that Bob Hanks fellow. Very
enjoyable."   "I don't know. When your sisters were  dating, they always
went
Dutch," says  my mother.    "Well, maybe they dated losers."
   "Didn't they go Dutch, Herb?" she asks  my father. "I don't recall."
"All
the young girls today work. If  they're so into this Womens' Lib thing,
the
entire cost of the date shouldn't have to come out of your pocket."    "Mom,
what do you know? You haven't    been on a date since the Roosevelt
administration."     "Don't make me out to be such an old    fuddy duddy."
 >                 "You know, Mitchell, we have a niece  in  New York," says
Evelyn. "She's a very lovely girl. Would you like her number?"     "We'll, I
don't know. What's she like?"  "She must be about 28 now, I suppose. The
last
time I saw her was about three years ago at my cousin Gertrude's son's   Bar
Mitzvah."    "Sure, get him her number. What does he  have to lose?" says my
mother.    "She lives in Manhattan, too. You're  practically neighbors,"
quips Evelyn.  "Give her a call," coaxes my mother.  "She's got to be better
than those  shiksas you meet in bars, or
 > wherever it is that you run with your friends.
> Am I right Herb?"   After 40 years of marriage, my father     knows better
than to disagree with my  mother, especially in public."Yes, it's about time
he seriously
  considered settling down and starting a  family," says my father, to my
 mother's  approval.    "Does she have a rich father, Evelyn?"  my mother
asks.
  After a brief pause, Murray says, "So  Mitchell, I hear you work
for IBM."   "No, not exactly. I work for an ad     agency that creates
advertising for  IBM."  "Oh, really. I saw an item in the  paper  today that
said IBM is going to  build a microchip plant in Singapore," he  says.
"If you want, I can clip it out for you."  "No thanks. I'm sure my office
already    knows."  "Everything is with these computers  today. It's a
different world." All  nod in agreement
  As dinner concludes, the  waiter appears with our    check, which my
father

 microscopically inspects.   "You have to be very careful,  because  they
very often make mistakes." He alerts the waiter that the coffee  should have
been included in the price of  their  meal, and the bill is adjusted
accordingly.   The bill comes to $44.35 plus tax  and tip  for the five of
us. My father  presents a  coupon from the Pennysaver which   entitles him
to
an additional two  dollars  off. Murray and my father each  contribute their
respective shares. My mother adds 3 dimes, a nickel and a   penny from her
change purse to make  sure the bill is evenly split to the
last   cent.
     The waiter delivers a  doggie bag of leftoverfish and string beans to
                                        my mother, who then wraps the
uneaten
rolls along with a handful of sugar packets in napkins, placing them in  her
purse. "This is for you for  later," she tells me lovingly. I can't wait.
Actually, I couldn't wait. Having finished dinner at 6:30, I awake hungry in
the  middle of the night, and butter myself   some of those hard rolls.








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