Pasta Phantom

I don’t like pasta. The thin and yellow noodles remind me of old lady legs; weak and brittle and ready to give out any moment. Something about eating old lady legs doesn’t sit right with me. 

The worn menu feels rough in my hands, the brown leather peeling off the front. You’d think the restaurant would’ve splurged on new menus during their remodel. My eyes skim over the list of pasta dishes in the faded sans serif font. I scan the size 12 words, silently willing a hamburger to magically appear before my eyes. Unfortunately, Il Gusto d’Italia di Ria has always been higher class than a measly ketchup and mustard burger.

“Find anything you like?”

The blind date I agreed to go on says. His dirty blonde hair is stiff and slicked back, almost as if he slathered gel all over the strands and rushed out of the house without combing it. He has a soft smile, but his teeth are kind of yellow. I bet if he leaned in closer, I could smell the sour wine on his breath. 

“Not yet.” I give him a smile. 

I look back at the menu. The dim lights make the words seem smaller and the dishes blend together the further down the list I go.

Spaghetti carbonara. Homemade lasagne. Mushroom and spinach ravioli.

“I think I’m going to get the lasagne. It’s one of my favorites.” He folds his napkin over his lap and takes a sip of his red wine. “Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

Any wine pales in comparison to the Palomino the restaurant stopped carrying six months ago, but I don’t mention that. 

“I’m sure. Wine isn’t a favorite of mine.”

It’s not a total lie. The vinegar taste doesn’t go down the same as it did years ago. The buzz isn’t worth the burn and the sour aftertaste similar to the feeling of eating rotten grapes.

“I see,” he chuckles. A dimple in the upper corner of his mouth appears when he smiles, and I can’t help but hate it. “Maybe you just haven’t tried the wine here. It’s one of the best I’ve had.”

I make a noncommittal sound similar to that of agreement. My eyes quickly scour the next page of the menu. A list of wines and desserts catch taunt me as I look through the appetizers again. 

The restaurant looks the same as it did ten years ago. The paint is a mushroom brown, and the big windows highlight the framed family portraits hanging on the walls. 

The dark ambiance is chilling rather than calming, and I’d give almost anything to be at any other restaurant.

A waiter dressed in a black suit refills my water.

“Have we decided on our entree’s?”

An awkward silence overtakes the table as my date glances at me, then at the waiter, and then back at me. I can feel four pairs of eyes staring into my soul as I quickly read over the menu again.

Shrimp scampi with angel hair pasta. Italian pasta salad. Garlic and olive oil chicken.

“Ma’am, would you like a few more minutes?”

There’s 15 different spaghettis, 10 different Italian salads, and about 50 unique chicken dishes, and I can’t pick one. 

I know in my heart that the recipes aren’t the same as they used to be. The restaurant is constantly changing and all of the food tastes different. The new chef doesn’t add oregano to the red sauce anymore and it makes the spaghetti and meatballs quite bland. The wine in the carbonara is too acidic and it overpowers the flavor of the sauce. The shrimp in the scampi isn’t as fresh as it used to be and doesn’t blend well with the thin noodles.

“Aria, it’s okay to take your time.” 

My date takes my hand in his, and his eyes are almost sympathetic as he looks at me. I scan his face thoroughly, looking for any hints of anger or annoyance, but come up with nothing. 

His hand over mine is clammy and wet. I slowly pull mine back and grip the menu in both hands. I look up to notice that the waiter is gone. 

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I just need another minute.” 

Tomatoes with prosciutto. Margherita pizza. Cacio e pepe.

My eyes skim over the san serif again, noting the basil and shrimp risotto for the seventh time. 

The carpaccio always went well with a glass of Palomino. 

“Have you considered the trenette al pesto, Ria?”

It takes every ounce of will power in me to not turn around at the sound of his voice. It’s just as deep as I remember, and the alto sound assaults my brain with thousands of memories I’ve tried so hard to suppress. 

His hand on my shoulder burns my heart, and my mind loses the battle against the memories fighting to escape. Suddenly I’m in his car, listening to the rain pattering against the hood while he drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on my thigh. We spoke through glances at red lights and squeezes of skin.

In his kitchen, we wrapped arms around each other and swayed in the dark. It wasn’t dancing because we only moved to the sound of our own breaths. I can still feel the cold linoleum, and I can see the yellow wallpaper illuminated by the moon every time I close my eyes. It was in his kitchen where he told me of his love for Italian food and taught me to make his grandma’s favorite recipes. It was in his kitchen when he told me his dream of opening a restaurant, and it was his promise that I’d be right by his side when he did. 

His hair is still as black as the night sky. His eyes are still sky blue, and I know if I look into them I’ll be done for. Those eyes hold promises he couldn’t keep and fears he couldn’t outrun. His olive skin holds secrets he can’t whisper and dreams he can’t speak about. The last time I heard his voice, my dreams had been shattered into a million meaningless specks that I pushed so far away I forgot about them. The last time he said my name was when he opened his restaurant and put my name on the front.

I liked pasta when I was with him.

Mushroom carbonara. Rigatoni with fennel. Trenette al pesto.

I wish I could tell him how long I waited to see his face again, how every memory with him was one I’ll never forget.

Instead, I tilt my chin up and force my eyes away from the dimple in the corner of his lips, and say, “That sounds lovely.”