Happy New Year

Happy New Year!  Ann’s officially retired!  What a way to start a new year!  Me, well, I have a few years left before I can loosen my belt, but as you know there will be some more major changes this year so Happy New Year!

Before we look too far forward, we should take a moment to savor Ann’s long-awaited retirement (yes, that sigh you hear is the residual echo of her disbelief that it would ever arrive - kinda like that faint echo of the Big Bang scientists say they can still detect).  Anyway, what better way to start things off with than a story.  A good story.  One that really should be told by Heidi, Ann’s boss, I mean former boss, and was told by Heidi at Ann’s going away lunch.  You’ll just have to settle for my re-telling.

There’s a couple of things you should know about Heidi (other than she’s great).  First, she’s one of the many we helped get hooked onto Piazza Italia, our favorite restaurant in Portland.  Second, she’s spent time in Italy in her youth and, well, she knows just how good it is!  Third, we’ve gotten into the habit of, whenever she’s there she’ll text us a shot of her meal, and whenever we’re there, we do the same back to her.  Only occasionally will the photo will have a caption like, “Wish you were here!”  Usually it’s something like, “Guess where we’re at (and you’re not)!”  (We save Devon’s favorite, “Sucks to be you!” Just for him).  

Heidi got Ann several work-related going-away presents (work related as in, they all hinted at some inane event or saying that happened at work), plus she got both of us presents as a send-off gift for Portugal.  

After some long and hard thinking, she decided to get us something from Piazza Italia (no, not a plate of Gino’s Favorite to take on the plane).  She actually called the restaurant and came up with a brilliant idea.  Shirts.  Now, I have to admit that for several years I have coveted the t-shirt that the employees at the restaurant wear.  Simply put, the back of it has the perfect explanation of the various cultural differences that exist throughout Europe.  It’s really all you need to know before you head over there.  This is what it says:

You can see why I wanted one!

So after some discussion with the folks at Piazza Italia - which involved several e-mails and and sending them pictures of us (who knows how she got those - at least they recognized who we were) - they came up with one better than shirts.  They would get the folks in the restaurant to sign them.  They had a game plan, and Heidi scheduled a trip up to Portland with her family, which would include a meal at Piazza Italia, and they’d pick up the shirts.

The day comes and they arrive at the restaurant.  “Hi, I’m Heidi, the person who’s been talking to you about the signed t-shirts for my friends.”  “T-shirts, what t-shirts.”  “You know, we exchanged a bunch of e-mails about getting shirts signed for my friends.”  They ask around, “Nobody knows what you’re talking about.”  Well, eventually the owner/manager did, and said, “Oh, yeah, I remember.  We can make that happen for you.  Do you have a pen?”  

And of course Heidi didn’t have a pen, and certainly not one that would show signatures on a black shirt.  The shirts were supposed to already be signed.  So they went back and forth about what to do, but the Owner was adamant that everyone should sign the shirts just like he’d promised.  Well, at some point (before, during or after lunch - I don’t recall), the Owner disappears.  “Where did the Owner go?”  “Oh, he went out to get a pen.  He said he’ll be back soon and you should stay here.”  So they did.  And they sat, and sat, and sat.  

And sat, and sat, and sat.

Heidi’s kids were getting bored, her husband . . .  well, you can imagine.

And they sat some more, and sat and sat.

Finally, a couple hours after they’d finished their dessert, the Owner shows up.  He’s got the pen!

And it doesn’t work!  

So everyone’s making a big scene about this pen, but they won’t let Heidi go with just the shirts.  They promised signed shirts so she’ll get signed shirts!

Finally, someone got the pen to work and they call everyone out to the table to start signing.  Service, cooking, everything at the restaurant comes to a halt while they’re getting all the staff out to the table to sign the shirts.  Heidi says folks are looking around like, “What is going on?  All I want to do is order!”

So the Boss picks up the pen and says, so who’s it for.  “Let’s start with Dan.” Heidi says.  And he writes . . .

“No, . . . Dan!  His name is Dan!” 

“Yeah, Dean.” 

“No, that’s not what you wrote, it’s Dan!” 

“Yeah, look, I wrote Dean!”  And on it went, back and forth.

Heidi eventually gave up (oh how I wish you could have seen her face as she was telling the story!).  

Then it came time for the signatures, and all hell breaks loose.  

Where to begin?  Possibly the shouting match when one of the employees signed the shirt with a signature larger than the Owner’s.  Or maybe the person who had their name higher up on the shirt than the Owner’s.  Or the arguing back and forth over who had the better signature.  Or the haranguing of the kitchen staff person that he too had to sign the shirts, despite the fact that he had apparently just cut himself and he was afraid of getting blood all over the shirts (no evidence of that on either shirt).  As Heidi put it, “It was just like being back in Italy.”  And I hate to say it, but my story telling doesn’t do Heidi’s justice.  I almost died as she was telling it.

In the end, both shirts got signed.  The owner, waiters, cooks, the woman who slices the bread, and the bus boy.  Everyone signed the shirts.

All is well that end well.  Ann and I both have Piazza Italia shirts (even if mine does say Dean), and we got to hear a great story.  I guess there’s some truth to the last line on the back of the t-shirt.  Thank you Heidi! For everything you endured.

Best of all?  We can wear our shirts in Portugal with no worries that we’ll offend the Portuguese, who are conveniently left off the list.  We’ll probably piss everyone else off, but hey, we’ll be in Portugal so they’ll just have to get over it.