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20 November 2008 - 23:58

dinner italiano

You know how these fund-raising spaghetti (or chili, or barbeque, or sloppy joe) dinners go.

You buy your tickets days ahead of time (so they get their money up front) and then you show up when you're hungry, go through the buffet line getting mass-produced food slopped on your paper plate, and you sit down somewhere amidst rows of cafeteria tables and eat it. All the while feeling good about how you're contributing to a good cause. And at the same time grateful you're not one of the volunteers serving or cleaning up after this event.

Well, this one wasn't like that.

Except for the middle part, the part about about feeling good about contributing.

No, when we arrived at the side door to the stone church, (a church I had never been in before, but a church the wife was able to explain to both me and some unknowing members of the congregation, is the oldest church building in our community) we were greeted by the sight of people seated at dispersed tables covered with white and red checked table cloths. Lit candles in the center of each, with utensils wrapped in napkins set at each place setting. Italian music in the background, audible above the gentle murmur of voices. With waiting staff, dressed in white over black, hovering about.

After being seated by the hostess in her fine, white dress, we were politely offered water from a pitcher. A young server, his head barely taller than the table, came by and serious inquired if we wanted bread or breadsticks, which he delivered from a basket, carefully untouched, with tongs.

Another server, white towel folded meticulously over his arm, inquired to our choices of drink: coffee, iced tea or milk?

Small dinner salads were already placed before us, with delicious Italian dressing on the table, already shaken. Before these were consumed, our waitress had begun bringing out our spaghetti dinners, with sides of more toasted bread, and green beans.

Interestingly, all inquiries, and all deliveries, were made first to me, as the head of the family, rather than to the lady seated at our table.

Before the meals were done, our waitress came by again, asking if we wished to see the dessert platter, which she promptly retrieved.

Naturally I opted for the chocolate cake, with the wife and youngest son following my lead. (Which was excellent... like German chocolate inside, but with a tasty, light whipped cream chocolate frosting.)

Like all good Italian restaurants, one of the cooks came out to visit with us at our table. Where our fine dining conversation dealt with her elk hunting experiences (unsuccessful so far) and my day of cutting into dead deer. And about last Sunday's fun times by the Jehovah Witnesses' Hall.

As we enjoyed our dessert, the family at the table next to us arose and gathered their coats to leave. The young bread server, now fulfilling his function as busboy, immediately arrived to clear the table before they had managed to exit the door. And complained, a little too loudly, in true disappointment...

"There's no money! They're supposed to leave money on the table!"

Welcome to the waiting profession, son.

The matron of the family turned to apologize, but they hadn't brought any cash with them. One of the adult hosts, dressed also in white and black, quickly explained that "Contributions are welcome, but not required."

But clearly, for one small little boy at his first job, they were expected.

Youngest son, having grown up with parents who both worked in waiting jobs, left a generous tip on our table for the young busser to find.

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