A Taste of Roma

When you meet a man named George who came to SF because he tried LSD in ’65 and a man named Tom who lived on a boat in Sausalito wanting to sail the America’s Cup, you stop, shake their hands to introduce yourself and take a seat. Cos this was going to be good.

But, as always is the case, the main attraction of the evening was Taylor. I might be at that age where sitting on the sidewalk outside a cafe listening to smooth jazz sounds like a good time. Tay seems to think so, as he made a bee-line for the door to the restaurant, but the staff at Taste of Roma was not to be turned. No four legged pal of mine would be allowed to enter the premises.

Enter George & Tom sitting outside offering their services, cos like everyone else who meets him, they were in awe of Taylor and his big head. Tay’s bighead was a definite crowd pleaser. I went inside to order a plate of spaghetti bolognese, what I order at almost every Italian joint I ever grace, a simple & elegant dish when made properly, was out of this world. I sometimes have dreams about it. In my dreams tho, Taylor usually takes the dish from me.

Minutes later, I was sitting with George & Tom, who had become fast friends with Tay. We talked about where they were from and what they loved about the Bay Area. They argued who was the better team – Stanford or Cal – and where was the best college town – Palo Alto or Berkeley. These friends had a definite severe dislike for the other’s team. Not settling the argument, I mended fences by asking about Sausalito. Tom a lifer, George having moved here by way of Lagrange, IL (his claim to living in Chicago, which always bothers me when people claim to be from Chicago- no you’re not, you’re from Lagrange) and the Yucatan the past 13 years. But he kept coming back to Sausalito. That must have been one helluva a trip back in ’65, not that would have any idea what that was like. We talked about all the Europeans that would regularly vacation in Sausalito. I told them I met some Australians at the Jazz & Blues Festival by the Bay, which brought them back to complaining about the Euros again. I didn’t want to bring up the proximity of Australia to Europe fearing it would be lost on the man who thought that Lagrange and Chicago were the same.

The food arrived. And it looked great. If I wasn’t so hungry, I would have Instagrammed it. Food porn is my thing. Ready to devour my meal having sprinkled just the right amount of crushed pepper, oregano and Parmesan, two beautiful Italian women walked up. Within a blink of an eye and faster than you could say ‘belle donne’, Taylor jumped off the sidewalk taking my table and chair (with me sitting on it) with him. Understandably, Tay loves beautiful women (something I generally applaud him for). I fell onto the sidewalk, my dinner splattered onto the ground, my pride noticeably shaken.

As I write this, I wonder if I am still dreaming that Taylor has eaten my food? You tell me.

With a 45 min walk back to my place, let’s hope that’s part of the dream too.