„To my not so imaginary Friend from the other side of the Pond, known by name as Greenwood, or David, for the connaisseurs, who claims himself as a Logistic, but being too busy being human. Ave!”
Well, this is a fake story about a fake life, like the ones you get from comics. There are no heroes and nothing alike, there is only me, my memories, dreams and the other stuff that is not such important.
Each morning I wake up, put my feet in my slippers and start the day as so there where not be another one. Going downstairs, seeing Mrs Ostergaard (this is the name of one of my former Bosses – I had a lot of these – that I cannot imagine in other circumstance than being a cashier – wishful thinking, you may say, but think twice, you never know when is happening), by Danish descend, sitting tight over the machine that counts money (you are welcomed to say it better as long as you are proficient at a professional level in English, but it is my imaginary restaurant, and I do what I want with it), saying that sleepy „Good Morning, Sir”with that awful accent, unbearable by the time. But that’s it. Soon, while recovering myself from the pile of pots laying lazy on the first floor, I started to put some order – this is debatable, as long as my wife truly believes that I cannot possibly ever meet the job requirements – what job and which requirements is also debatable, but let’s not stick on that, because it will be a awfully long run – into the mess that is downstairs. I don’t really know what downstairs I’m talkin’ about, but, anyway, is something that lies down, somewhere. Remember it’s a dream. Yeah, my life is one of those.
Once, my descend from the Floor (which one is still a mystery, at least for me) to the downstairs is made, I am happy. Should I? I mean going down is not the happiest moment of someone’s life, but never mind. Did I got to the base floor? Well, if not, I cannot pass to the arrangement of the chairs and tables and to clear the mess also from the kitchen. Usually I arrange the objects from somewhere else – and do not tell my wife about it, she still believe that I cannot organize anything at all, but she is seeing only the empty side of the whatever – but is not my fault, I am droping out of the where ever I am into this morning mess and I have to write an article because I made a stupid promise.
The story is that I always dream to have a small restaurant: three tables and seven chairs, plus that tin cover over the bar. To serve clients, thirsty, weary, after a long way or after the night shift, looking for a booze and some quiet time.
This article is also dedicated to Mr. George Butunoiu in respecting a promise that I made to write something about a restaurant, and knowing nothing about others restaurants I made up myself. Hope that the gourmet inside him will have the last word. This is the perfect article that anyone can dream of: it has nothing, no idea, no charm, no relevance. In this respect I accepted publishing offers from Washington Post.
And YES George, a real gourmet don’t have to taste a dish to say that is exceptional.
Ave! Till next time.
