beauty in the eye of the beholder: my favorite italian restaurant is clearly a drug front

“you want what?” said the incredulous cashier over the phone. “what’s a calzone?” i should have known right then, but a calzone is so easy to describe, i barely wasted a breath before explaining. “ah, mangiatta,” the plant responded, his watery italian accent returning with unearned confidence, “we make-a the calzone for you just the way you like. that’s it though, right?”

any doubts i had about the restaurant’s integrity were confirmed when i walked in and all eleven employees working that wednesday night were glaring at me, staged in various positions of “what’s a matta you?” around the kitchen. it goes without saying that i was their only customer in the building or perhaps the zip code that evening, but the focus i was receiving while picking up my order cannot be overstated.

“here’s your order,” the cashier said without a trace of accent, unless “stoned surfer” counts as one. he didn’t bother to ask for my name or see a confirmation number, i was the singular customer for the evening. did i reflexively close a pop-up on their website that clearly stated their intentions to package and distribute illegal drugs? a “not a real restaurant” disclaimer?

i felt their eyes burning into me as i left and got into my car, e.g. the single car parked in the entire plaza. it was becoming more obvious to me by the minute. i shook it off, hurried home, and started tearing into my meal like an amish boy with a victoria’s secret catalogue. imagine my surprise when the calzone was actually incredible.

and imagine their surprise when i placed another to-go order the week after. i actually saw one of the “chefs” throw his hands up in the air when he saw me pull in. but at that point, i didn’t care. when you find something special, you hold on with all your strength, and by god, these drug mules didn’t know what sort of italian gold they had in their hands. fresh ingredients, bargain pricing, and a guaranteed parking spot outside the store? i don’t care what you’re doing in the back room, give me that lasagna. i’m working my way through their menu one item at a time. i figure eventually i’ll accidentally use a secret code word and get a glock held against my temple, but until then, i’ll be drowning in these garlic knots.