“This isn’t penne,” I told the cook.
“Yeah, so?”
“I asked for penne.”
“What’s the difference lady?” he asked in a thick New York accent, “It all tastes the same!”
“Right, I know. But see, you asked me what kind of pasta I wanted and I said penne. Why bother asking if you aren’t going to give me what I want?”
He gave me a thoroughly annoyed look, which thoroughly made me glad.
“What? Do you want some kind of refund or something?”
“No, I want penne,” I said standing my small but solid ground.
He came to the counter and looked at the meal.
“That looks like penne to me.”
“Well, it isn’t. It’s rigatoni.”
“Honestly, I can’t see a difference,” he replied shaking his head.
I picked up a piece and held it up about half an inch away from his eye, “See how the rigatoni is thick and wide? Penne is not as thick or wide. It’s smaller.”
I placed the fragment of pasta back onto the plate.
He furrowed his brow as if deep in thought, “Does it have ridges?”
“Yes, sometimes it does have ridges.”
“So sometimes it doesn’t?”
“Right. Sometimes penne is smooth without ridges.” I said gesturing with a wave of my hands that was meant to indicate ridges but ended up looking like I was trying out a fancy dance move without music or without moving my feet.
He took the plate in question and went back to the kitchen. I leaned on the counter and noticed a child sitting at a nearby booth imitating my move and laughing. I rolled my eyes and turned toward the counter. The cook returned a few minutes later.
“It’s my wife,” he explained, “sometimes she buys the penne with ridges and that’s when I get confused. Sorry about that.”
I took the plate and returned to my table where my friend was waiting. He sat happily eating his meatball sandwich when he inspected my plate.
“Isn’t that meat sauce?” he asked.
I was still looking at the kid. The family of four were all doing the hand move which was pitching the child into fits. It was unbelievable.
I looked toward my friend, “What? What did you say?”
He pointed to my dinner, “Meat.”
I looked down and saw the sauce.
“Didn’t you order marinara?” he asked.
“Yeah, so?”
“I asked for penne.”
“What’s the difference lady?” he asked in a thick New York accent, “It all tastes the same!”
“Right, I know. But see, you asked me what kind of pasta I wanted and I said penne. Why bother asking if you aren’t going to give me what I want?”
He gave me a thoroughly annoyed look, which thoroughly made me glad.
“What? Do you want some kind of refund or something?”
“No, I want penne,” I said standing my small but solid ground.
He came to the counter and looked at the meal.
“That looks like penne to me.”
“Well, it isn’t. It’s rigatoni.”
“Honestly, I can’t see a difference,” he replied shaking his head.
I picked up a piece and held it up about half an inch away from his eye, “See how the rigatoni is thick and wide? Penne is not as thick or wide. It’s smaller.”
I placed the fragment of pasta back onto the plate.
He furrowed his brow as if deep in thought, “Does it have ridges?”
“Yes, sometimes it does have ridges.”
“So sometimes it doesn’t?”
“Right. Sometimes penne is smooth without ridges.” I said gesturing with a wave of my hands that was meant to indicate ridges but ended up looking like I was trying out a fancy dance move without music or without moving my feet.
He took the plate in question and went back to the kitchen. I leaned on the counter and noticed a child sitting at a nearby booth imitating my move and laughing. I rolled my eyes and turned toward the counter. The cook returned a few minutes later.
“It’s my wife,” he explained, “sometimes she buys the penne with ridges and that’s when I get confused. Sorry about that.”
I took the plate and returned to my table where my friend was waiting. He sat happily eating his meatball sandwich when he inspected my plate.
“Isn’t that meat sauce?” he asked.
I was still looking at the kid. The family of four were all doing the hand move which was pitching the child into fits. It was unbelievable.
I looked toward my friend, “What? What did you say?”
He pointed to my dinner, “Meat.”
I looked down and saw the sauce.
“Didn’t you order marinara?” he asked.
