Talk about being in a steakhouse where you weren’t the right temperature.

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

We recognize the entire staff by face and name.

I’ve ordered everything on the menu a few times. However, my cousin Joan nearly always orders the same thing: chicken alfredo with extra garlic brea Our preferred waiter, Carmelita, just had a baby boy and was so happy to show us all her recent baby pictures, but Carmelita was a tall, slender woman with the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen. She had the thickest Italian accent I’d ever heard plus she expressed herself with her hands and shoulders more than anything. When our dishes came out, I had just started to feel quite warm. It was late autumn, but cool enough for a light coat, so I took it off, yet still felt as if I was baking. I asked Carmelita if there was anything unusual about the heat that night and she said that the manager had just upgraded the furnace and the temperature was on full blast to make sure that it was functioning correctly. As I felt sweat trickle down my head, I asked if we could move our seating within sight of the door, which she quickly allowed. I told her to tell Mannfred and Tony that they need not worry, because the furnace was very powerful. Maybe that would convince them to turn it down to a reasonable temperature because it was sweltering. Needless to say, our food wouldn’t be cooling down anytime soon! .


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