It was a very hot and humid day in Washington D.C., many years ago. Mom, Dad and my wife and two kids along with myself had just visited Williamsburg, Virginia and we were very tired, thirsty and hungry. The heat and humidity dried out our throats, and consumed our energy, we weren’t sure if we were hungry or thirsty.
We drove around Washington for a while looking for a place to eat after our day at the historic village and came to this modern mall in Washington and found a pizzeria, very slick looking and void of any customers. This should have been a clue not to go in there.
The first thing we ordered was a pitcher of coke and then decided on our dinners.
We all ordered something different and some of the plates had tomato sauce on them. Dad’s happen to be one of them. Uh oh!
Sitting through his meal he became very grumpy, complaining that the sauce was absolutely terrible. Having been raised in an Italian restaurant cooking in a small hotel many years before, he knew how to cook and this sauce was not to his liking!
He complains to the waiter, a teenager who could care less and the kid shrugs his shoulder, telling us he only serves it. The fury was building: this could not stand. We get the check and pay, all at once getting up to leave, while dad is still mad and complaining. As we reach the exit, there is no dad! Where’s Dad? Suddenly we hear yelling in the kitchen, as he has the poor cook up against a wall and he is tongue-lashing the guy, as the poor bastard admitted he pour the sauce straight from the can!
Dad walked out smug, “I told you so,” he said.
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