Being in a restaurant where you weren’t the right temperature.

Every Tuesday my cousin Tiffany and I go eat at the same Italian restaurant.

We know the entire staff by name and they know ours.

I’ve tried everything on the menu a couple of times whereas my cousin Tiffany always orders the same thing, chicken alfredo with extra garlic bread. Our usual waiter, Carmello, just had a baby boy and was so excited to show us every picture he had. Carmello was a tall, slender older gentleman with the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen. Also one of the thickest Italian accents I’d ever heard and he spoke with his hands and shoulders more than anything. When the food came out I had just started to notice how hot I was. It was late fall but cool enough for a light jacket so I took it off yet still felt as if I was burning up. I asked Carmello if there was anything different about the heat that evening and he said that the owners had just replaced the furnace and so the heat was on full blast to make sure that it was working correctly. As I felt a bead of sweat forming on my head, I asked if we could move our seating closer to the door which he quickly obliged. I told him to tell Mike and Joe that they need not worry, that the furnace was top notch but I personally felt like a komodo dragon underneath the vents, so maybe turn it down a notch or three. I think my food was even hotter than it was when it first came out.



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