THESE DAYS, EATING OUT IN A REAL RESTAURANT is taking a chance, I suppose, until this Covid stuff dies out. But we wanted a celebratory meal last night, and so we headed to our favorite family-owned Italian restaurant called Little Italy. Usually, looking at the menu is a waste of time, since we both always get the same thing. When you find something that you like, stick with it. But I got something different and very simple: spaghetti with sausage. We even both ordered a glass of vino, unusual for us. The waiter was a bit of a dolt, first not bringing my wife's wine, then not bringing my salad when he brought her salad. For dessert, we split a piece of N.Y. cheesecake. We both ended up just where one ought to be under the circumstances: pleasantly full but not too full. I cancelled the order for wheel chairs to help us to our car. My wife has learned from long experience not to allow me to pay the check, since I am a certifiable cheapskate and a lousy tipper. I don't hesitate to admit this personality quirk, since, in truth, I am rather proud of it. I don't even look at the check when it comes. I don't wish to know how much we spent, I don't want to know how large a tip she left, and I am quite comfortable in my obliviousness. What I don't know won't irritate, offend, or keep me up past my bedtime.
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