While out shopping yesterday, my wife and I took a break and had dinner out. Our waiter introduced himself as Zack and displayed charm, humor, and natural friendliness. We’ve eaten at this place regularly, so we quickly ordered and off Zack went.
Our salads were brought and eaten. Then we waited Zack kept coming by, asking, need more beer, more bread, or anything else? We smiled, turned everything down, and waited for our meal.
When it finally arrived, Zack grinned. “I’m sorry it took so long. I was getting worried.”
I replied, “You were getting worried? I was asking myself, what did that Zack do with our order?”
I think of this as, ‘Which of these restaurants would I like to go to right now?’
Like movies, books, and music for me, my favorite restaurant has a weight attached to it. Company is that weight. Time and place. Who was with me, and where did I live on the water slide of my existence.
A second question comes up. Which of these places remain in existence?
The top five, counting up to number one.
5. Yes, it’s a cafe. Coffee shop, actually. La-di-da. Half Moon Bay, California. Terrific Mexican mochas and good vibe. Ten minute Saturday or Sunday morning walk from my house. Another ten minute walk west to the Pacific ocean. A thirty minutes or so drive back into the insanity of Silicon Valley. It’s gone, baby, sold and sold again.
4. Seaside. Kadena Air Base, Okinawa, Japan. Wonderful place for a long afternoon lunch when the time for a break came. Overlooked the East China Sea. Still there, according to Kadena’s website.
3. Chanello’s Pizza. Hugh square cheese-laden, toppings-heavy crispy thing. We used to order it when we lived on Randolph AFB, Texas, in the late 1970s. Just outside of Universal City. A short drive from San Antonio. Cousins would come over and we would chow down.
2. Laughing Planet in Eugene, Oregon. Such awesome burritos. We’re fans of burritos but this place knocks us out. My wife and I sometimes play a game: which places would we like to have in our town? This place consistently arrives on our list.
1 – The Green Salmon Cafe in Yachats. We enjoy their vegan, gluten-free pastries and breakfast sandwiches. It’s another place we’d like to have here in our town.
Honorable mentions: Ruby’s, here in Ashland, Oregon. Awesome burritos, sandwiches, and burgers. Garden Fresh Chinese Restaurant in Mountain View, California. They used plant-based meat way back in the 1990s. Chevy’s Tex-Mex in Foster City, California. You know, I think we’re pretty partial to Mexican food. DeNunzio’s Italian Trattoria in Monroeville, PA. Great food, wonderful staff.
They’re all favorites. I wouldn’t mind hitting all of them just one more time.
A long and greatly involved dream in three parts entertained me last night. It seemed like it was about hopes, expectations, and relationships.
Part 1: the Catholic family.
In this, Mom had to go away. Although I was an adult, she worried about where I was going to stay and what I was going to do, standard concerned Mom reactions to change. I ended up with an offer to stay with a childhood friend’s family. Neighbors. Haven’t seen the guy in almost fifty years, but here he was, in my dream, along with his parents. His parents have passed away some time ago, BTW.
In this dream, they had a huge home. I wouldn’t deem it luxurious but enormous with a byzantine layout. Some rooms were like huge cement auditoriums or gymnasiums; others were small but with multiple levels.
My friend’s mother told me, “Do whatever you want here. Just act like it’s your house. We’re happy to have you here.”
While I appreciated the sentiments, I was leery of making myself an unwanted guest, so I tried being circumspect. Weirdly I wore off-white pajamas with narrow blue pinstripes the entire time. I thanked her, of course. After casual exploring, I found a large room with a small student desk, the kind seen in elementary school, where I set up my computer and sat down to write.
After I set up, she came by with her family. Only she spoke, though, telling me, “We’re going out. We’re going to be gone a while, so the house is all yours.” It felt like a huge responsibility, almost a burden, but I thanked her for her trust and hospitality. They left; I kept writing.
At some point, I grew aware that it was pouring rain and the onset of dusk outside. I decided to leave.
Part 2: the Porsche rally and restaurant.
I went into my hosts’ garage and found a car. A small and older sports car of some kind, I knew it as mine.
I drove out into the rain and down a driveway to a busy, winding multi-laned urban street. Small sports cars were passing, dropping revs and downshifting, and sometimes sliding, drivers catching spins as the car’s back end swung out on the slick asphalt.
I recalled then, that’s right, the town was hosting a Porsche Rally, with special emphasis on older Porsches and the Porsche Spyder.
Well, that explained it! I also saw a circa 1970 Lotus Elan go by. I wondered if they’d allowed it to participate in the Porsche event, or if serendipity had brought it to this time and place.
Pulling out into the driving rain, I drove carefully, wishing I had a Porsche like the stylish little cars I saw. As I came up one hill, I needed to slow substantially because a Bugatti Veyron had spun across the middle of the road. I wondered, what is an expensive exotic like that doing here? I then saw three more going by in the rain.
Bugatti Veyron from the net — not my car.
It was almost dark and I reached my destination, a crowded old restaurant where I was meeting friends. The menu was American-Immigrant fusion. I began with pasta with tomato sauce and meatballs, and then switched to chicken fried rice. We stood as we ate, and my food tasted sensational.
As I ate, a tall, thin man walked by. “Guess what,” he loudly said, “I saw jars of Ragu in the kitchen. You’ve been tricked! This sauce is not made here.”
My friends and I shrugged it off. Wherever the food was from, it was awesome.
Part 3: the Revolution
I piled into a car with four other men. One of them was driving. One was armed with a gun which was part of his head. I could see that it was loaded with one round bullet, like something you’d fire from a musket. I was pondering the intricacies of how you’d aim a gun like that, especially if the target is moving.
We parked and entered a small, dim theater. A small stage was set up on the far end in front of rows of padded metal folding chairs. About twenty people, mostly men, were present. All were early middle-aged or older, and all were white. I milled with a few people, chatting for several seconds, and then one man began talking. They were there to overthrow the government.
Well, hold on, I thought, uneasy. I’d been invited to this gathering, and it’s not what I thought it was going to be. Something about the way they were addressed struck me as a religious group. I eased myself to one side, thinking, how am I going to get out of here?
At that point, the man with the gun head fired. He pointed it somewhere else and not at me. I watched the round ball leave its barrel with a plume of white smoke.
This was a dream with a sharp real feeling, startling me into confusion when I found myself in my bed after awakening.
I received a small brown box in the mail. Opening it were two things. Don’t know what one was but the other was a large bunch of green grapes in a plastic baggy. Receiving those really pleased me as I’d order them. From that, I learned that my wife and I were vacationing and staying a small room and bath in some exotic location. The building was small and meandering and seemed to be constructed of thick clay. My dwelling was painted pink but the one beside it was yellow.
A knock came on the door and then a large American opened it. He explained that they were next door. They didn’t have a bathroom and were told they needed to use ours. Sure, I told him. He and his wife entered. While he used the bathroom, we chatted with the wife about the place, inviting them to go with us as we went around so that they can learn of places we enjoy.
I showed them my grapes in their baggy. Then I opened the baggy. The grapes all immediately blackened and shriveled. I thought they were raisins but feeling them found that they were soft and mushy. I left them alone because I didn’t want to damage them. We left, taking the bunch of darkened grapes with me.
We walked around small shops. Shopkeepers and local people wanted to touch the darkened grapes wherever we went. They seemed in awe of them. We finally arrived at the small restaurant where we wanted to eat. We’d eaten there before, including the previous year. It was at the owner’s behest that I’d ordered the grapes.
I showed him the darkened grapes and told him what happened. Delighted, he asked if he could hold them, which I permitted. Holding them aloft, he explained that those aren’t grapes, and that I was very lucky to have these because they are very rare and special. I asked him to tell me what they were if they weren’t grapes. As he was embarking on his explanation, I awoke.
Sitting up in the bed in the dark, I shifted left and right, looking for him and my grapes.
Yesterday was a gorgeous day locally, and today extends a promise that it came be the same. Today is May 17, 2022, a Tuesday, as it goes. The sun crowded into the valley at 5:48 AM. It was already in the mid fifties by then. Now it’s up to the low sixties, and we expect a high around 73 F. As I noted, it’s much like yesterday. Sunset should come at 8:27 PM.
We breakfasted out this morning, the first time we’ve eaten breakfast out locally since Feb. 2020. See, back in 2019, we participated in an auction to support exchange students with our sister city in Mexico. One of the things we successfully bid on was a gift card for one of our local favorite restaurants, Brothers. My wife has some anxiety that COVID-19 will surge back into the area as tourism kicks in and people become complacent, so we took advantage of the low local numbers to use our gift card. She had mushroom and onion omelet while I did the Mediterranean scramble with artichokes, dried tomatoes, feta cheese, kalamata olives, and spinach. It was a pleasant, relaxing, and welcome change to our routines of the past two years.
I ran into a very friendly big black dog while I was out walking yesterday. Muzzle grayed with age, his body went into a hyper frenzy of wagging, like we were favorite cousins encountering one another after decades away. I was in the street so I worried that he was a stray but his person came out and reassured me. The dog and I spent a few minutes together and then he went home with his person, back to his yard. After I resumed walking, the neurons unleased “Black Dog” by Led Zeppelin into my mental music stream, where it still resides this morning.
So, here’s the music, and there’s my coffee. Stay positive and test negative, you know? Right. Cheers
What I remember of this vivid string of dreams began with me at home. This home wasn’t one that I’ve ever lived in, but a big, rambling, new place.
My cats were busy being cats but the neighbor’s cat broke in. She ate, which didn’t bother me, but then peed on the floor. I had to chase her down and put her out.
(Note: this has a lot of foundation in real life. The neighbor’s cat used to have free reign, but now, on her last legs, has constant runs, so she’s banned, the poor dear.)
Back to the dream, where my wife is in another room bathing. She’s hollering through the wall, something about how she can’t finish because I’m doing something. I don’t understand at all. Trying to communicate with her wearies me. I flee to my car.
It’s a black sports car. The day is gray and overcast, a sky associated with rainstorms. I drive to a winding section of road in a small town, park and enter a restaurant. It’s a busy old place. The waitresses are young and friendly. I order and eat (nothing that I remember) and then drink a cup of coffee. I’ve been chatting with the waitresses throughout. As I’m waiting for the bill, a woman comes over and asks me out. Surprises me. While she’s attractive, I decline, telling her, I’m married.
I get my bill. There are few customers left. Most are in line to pay. A long line, all the people in line are men. The cash register is on a small knoll outside. It’s a crazy-looking system. For some reason, I now put on my shoes. As I’m doing this, a waitress comes over and chats with me. Then she asks me out. Flattered, I decline. She’s probably a third of my age. I ask her where she would’ve taken me. She tells me to see a movie, Dora. We laugh about that and talk about that movie.
The staff asks if I can help them move some things and clean because the restaurant is changing locations tomorrow. Although I have things to do and don’t want to help, I do what I can. It’s only a few things, and there’s still a line to pay.
The line winds down. I take my leave and go to pay. The owner is the cashier. I hand him my bill, which is on a clipboard. He shows me a receipt and tells me, “It’s already been paid.”
Well, cool. I don’t know how or when, but I’m thankful. There’s no clues on the receipt, and everyone is now gone.
I return to my car. It’s still a gray day. The car is blocked in by trucks. I figure if I back up a hill, I can then leave by going down the other side of a hill. I don’t know how I figured that out. But when I go do make that maneuver, I discover my car is facing the right way. All I do is release the brake and put in the clutch and I’m going down a hill and onto the road, on my way. I do so with truckers standing around, watching me.
Such a pleasant and satisfying dream last night. Nothing special to it.
A friend had built a car. Although it resembled a circa 1969 Porsche 911S, he’d built that body on a new 991 chassis. Its engine was a turbocharged 4.5 liter flat six. Fat tired but inconspicuous, it was a dainty jewel.
I was buying it from him, Gene, for next to nothing. The only thing that bothered me was its color, bright red. For the rest of the dream, it was a silvery slate blue that reflected everything in its high gleam.
Opening the hood, I checked out the engine bay. He’d done professional work, and the car’s finish was like Porsche had built it. I was extremely pleased.
After acquiring it, I picked up two friends. We were meeting two other friends at a restaurant and going to a concert. The car’s power and grace as I drove stunned me. It was so smooth and controlled, far beyond anything that I’d ever driven. The car’s quiet, unencumbered speed impressed my passengers.
Arriving at the restaurant, we met the other two. I checked out their cars. One was driving a current generation Lexus. The other drove an Infiniti. That pleased me. As I told the friends I’d picked up, there was five of us. We wanted to take one car to make it all easier, and couldn’t go in my new Porsche.
The restaurant was an expensive and charming place sitting by itself in a green field with a parking lot. As it’d just opened for dinner, we were the only customers. We sat down and ordered a light dinner. I had some paperwork from the car. Essentially, the builder had typed up an owner’s manual. I read through it as we ate.
Then, time to go, we headed out to the cars. Plans were made; one car was being left at the restaurant. I was taking my car home, just up the road. We’d take the third car, the Lexus, to the concert.
Newer Porsches were now in the parking lot. None noticed my gem. I was experimenting with the accelerator, checking its responsiveness. The engine barked and snarled like a racing car, instantly answering the call for power with revs as I trundled it past the other parked cars. At one point, I had to stop to permit another to back out, which I did willingly, feeling cheerful and accommodating toward others.
Then we were exiting, turning left, going up a highway on a hill and around a curve. I quickly raced past others. The tach was redlined at 10,200, very high for a street car. The turbo was indicated on the tach as coming on at 8,200, which was also high. I remembered reading that, and also talking to the builder. He’d made it that high because he didn’t want to be dealing with turbo lag. With four and a half liters, it had power to do anything needed without the turbos.
I wanted to open the turbos and feel it. I was being cautious, though, intimidated by the power that I knew it had. I’d driven turbocharged vehicles and knew that the turbo could catch you out. You had to be aware when you used it.
I also knew that I needed to go home because that’s where the others were expecting me. Then I remembered, shit, I’d left my paperwork back at the restaurant.
Executing a u-turn, I returned to the restaurant. The dining room was now filled. Someone was at the table we’d used but I could see the paperwork. I told the hostess the issue and headed across to the table. By the time I arrived, the paperwork was gone. I addressed the people, a young man and woman there, and asked them about the paperwork. They hadn’t seen it.
Turning around, I realized that I was at the wrong table. The right one was behind me. And there was the paperwork. A businessman had just picked it up and told me that he was just moving it, it was there when he’d arrived. At my request, he handed it to me.
If you go to a favorite restaurant, and it’s a bad, bad meal – slow service, burnt food, and cold food that’s supposed to be hot – do you give them a second chance, or do you give them the boot?
Michael Seidel, writer 