Law & Can I Take Your Order?

I can barely see the face of the detective who has finally nabbed me and latched me to a hard chair in his interrogation room, blowing puffs of thick smoke into my face, making me hack and wheeze, and revealing me for the weakling I truly am.

‘What turned you to this life of crime?” he’ll ask leaning into me, staring at me with cold narrow eyes, his teeth tightly gripping the soggy yet smoldering cigarette.

I shyly meet his eyes and quietly stammer.

“I…I wanted to impress my in-laws, sir,” I say before collapsing into sobs on the table.

The detective nods knowingly, goes back to the other side of the table, dramatically flips the seat so that he can sit backwards, and leans forward.

“Why don’t you be a good girl and tell me everything,” he says, looking down as he begins to scribble in his notepad.

I take the moment to wipe my ears and nose of moisture and compose myself.  I take a deep breath as I begin.

“You see, sir, it happened like this…”

It was the final weekend of my in-laws’ visit.  We decided to punctuate the occasion by finally visiting a restaurant that a family friend had recommended to Joe’s dad.  This friend, having exceptional taste and high standards for service, remarked on how this place boasted the “best Italian” he’s had in a long time, and that the prices were reasonable.  He also said that service was excellent and that owner was warm and friendly.   We all figured we were in for truly memorable evening.

I plugged in the address on my phone, tasked with the responsibility to give Joe directions while he drove the four of us in his parents’ car.  All was going smoothly until we were nearing the end of our journey.  As we weaved through small road after small road, going through what appeared to be golf courses and apartment complexes, I began to get nervous. 

I should mention that I tend to get freakishly anxious around people I hope to impress, especially Joe’s parents.  As we continued to make our way through I began to panic that I had somehow put in the wrong address.  I kept apologizing, insisting that I was certain I had looked up the correct restaurant and trying to will the sweat from pouring out of my arms and forehead.  Joe’s parents simply smiled and shrugged, completely content and relaxed, and assuring me that we’d find it eventually.

At last we came to a small road that had two small buildings side by side.  One appeared to be a bar while the other looked practically vacant.  I was about to break down into another fit of apologies when Joe’s mom, Barb, noticed the handmade sign on the outside indicating that the entrance was around the corner.  A tiny patio was set up with about nine small tables, some joined together to accommodate larger parties, with strung lights and small table lanterns.  We all oohed over the beautiful presentation and hoped the food would be as magical.

When our table was ready we were sat in a small nook off to ourselves.  Soon the owner came out to greet us.

“Hi, folks!  You guys ever been here before?” she asked, her kind face smiling sweetly.

“Nah, we’re here just for this last weekend and then we head back up north,” Barb replied, equally friendly.

“But our friend Doug told us about this place and that we HAD to try it before we left,” Joe’s dad, Joe, added.

“Doug?” the woman asked.  “Was he sort of a big guy?  Tall?”

We all nodded in unison and added our own descriptions as well. 

“Sweetest guy.”

“With a beard.”

“Like Santa Claus!”

She nodded enthusiastically as she recalled our friend.

“Oh yes!  He was wonderful!  Oh I am so glad you guys came in!” she gushed.  She practically hugged us, ostensibly so grateful for the positive word of mouth.  We could tell this was a woman who loved her business and her customers dearly.  If the food was able to meet our expectations just halfway, we would be pleased.

Fortunately, the food was delectable and after a few glasses of wine, we all began to feel her relaxed and cheerful vibe.  Even I began to relax, despite my still constant nagging urge to please Joe and Barb.

This eventually got the better of me.

As Joe’s dad and I were talking about great times and restaurants, he admitted that he wished there was a way to have a memento to take with him after this great night.  He looked down and noticed the small service dish of parmesan cheese.

“Take the spoon,” he dared, indicating the tiny serving spoon tucked into the grains of cheese.

I stuttered but then broke out into a laugh, thinking he was surely joking.  He looked around him and nudged the dish closer to me.

“Come on…” he teased with a wink, “take the spoon! It'll be a great way to remember the night!”

Flustered, I kept laughing off the dare, still hoping he was kidding.  I couldn’t steal a spoon, my conscience piped in.  After how nice this lady was to us…

I looked down at the spoon.  It wasn’t ornate or anything.  Pretty basic and lackluster, actually.  Couldn’t cost more than fifty cents to replace, the devil on my shoulder reasoned.

When Joe’s attention was focused on his wife, I coyly picked up my napkin, covered the dish and then quickly plucked out the spoon.  With a quick hand, I dropped the spoon into my purse and put my hands back on the table.  It was done. 

After we had all finished up and thanked the owner, we got back in the car to head home.  Both Joes took the seats up front while Barb and I sat in the back.  Joe’s dad turns his head as we drive away.

“Did you get it?” he asked, smiling deviously.

“Get what?” Joe and Barb ask.

Drunk and smug, I finally dig the spoon out from the bottom of my purse and reveal it with an air of accomplishment.  My husband attempts to understand why I stole a spoon while his dad erupts into laughter and Barb simply shakes her head.

Eventually, as we make our way back to the house, my wine buzz begins to fade and it is immediately replaced with guilt.  Maybe I shouldn’t have done it, I begin to wonder.  They were so nice to us and I go and do something stupid just for a joke?   And what if the waiter gets blamed?  What if they get accused of stealing and they get fired?  What if they become penniless and homeless??  

Paranoid thoughts begin sprouting in my brain, and the guilt just further waters them.  I go to bed that night fearing the awful effects of my terrible action.

The next few days go by and I began to stop looking outside my door for a police car or expecting a frantic phone call from the restaurant owner pleading for the safe return of her beloved parmesan cheese spoon.

On the last day of their visit, as they pack up the last of their things and we say our goodbyes, Joe’s dad asks one more time.

“So, you still got the spoon?” he asks, jovially.

I smile and nod yes.   He laughs and gives me a squeeze on the arm, both of us sharing in the joke.  I realize then that the cost of the spoon isn’t much, but the price of having a great story to tell my future kids about their grandfather is invaluable.

Plus it’ll make for a great Christmas present. 

Hopefully I’ll be let out early for good behavior.

*These events were not fictional and were based on real people.  No spoons were harmed in the writing of this blog post.