by Mitch Lemus
Visiting from New York, I wallow in the heated
pool of my parent's South Florida retirement community where a group
of bathing cap clad seniors exchange their Early Bird dining
experiences: places that offer good value, places that have gone
downhill, places that are owned by the mafia, places that cater to
those on low-cholesterol, low-sodium diets.
The pool is just one of 14
within Wynmoor Village, a 5,000 unit sterile condo complex situated on
acres of exceptionally manicured grounds. Surrounding the entire
community is an 8-foot wall, where rent-a-cops at the gate leer at me
suspiciously, like they first did 12 years ago, when my folks fled
Brooklyn.
As I sip water from the
poolside fountain, an elderly woman approaches me. "Sonny, can you do
me a favor? Go into the men's sauna and ask if there's a Sol Finkel
inside. If he's in there, ask him when he's coming out. Tell him his
wife Minnie needs him to drive her to the butcher. Would you be a nice
young man and do that for me?"
At 4:30, my parents
and I drive to nearby Century Village (a.k.a. Cemetery Village), to
pick up their friends Murray and Evelyn Moskowitz who are joining us
for Early Bird dinner. We will be dining at "Antonio's" in Deerfield
Beach, normally a 10 minute ride via I-95. But my mother, who never
learned to drive, has a morbid fear of highways, and insists my father
take the streets. At age 74, this is probably not a bad idea. Yet, even
on the streets, my father is oblivious to cars he cuts off, like the
kid in the Camaro who flashes him the finger. After 45 minutes of
stop-and-go traffic, we arrive at "Antonio's."
The restaurant is located in
a strip mall, sandwiched between "PIP Printing" and a podiatrist's
office with an overhead sign that simply reads "Podiatrist Office." My
father steers his tank-size Mercury Marquis around the lot, but is not
content unless he parks in the closest possible spot to the restaurant.
We circle around and around past rows of late model Cadillacs, Buick
Roadmasters and Oldsmobile Eighty-Eights. Finally, he catches someone
pulling out, ultimately saving us a few steps.
"Antonio's," apparently one
of the area's hotspots, is bustling with senior citizens. Bald men
wearing checkered pants and white patent leather shoes. Women draped in
gold accessories sporting stiff white hairdos.
"Hello, I'm Ronald, and I'll
be your waiter this evening. Would anyone care for a drink?" All at the
table shake their heads no.
"I'll have an Amstel, please."
"You know, beer is not
included in the dinner," my mother whispers to me. "If you want beer,
I'll buy you a bottle at the supermarket."
"But I want a beer now, with
dinner."
"You can wait until we get
home."
"Yes ... no?" asks the waiter.
"Yes, please," I say. My
mother flashes me a look.
"I'll pay for it myself, OK?"
"Don't be such a big shot."
My parents study the menu as
if they're picking stocks in which to invest their life savings. After
several minutes, they begin calculating the options: With the Prix Fixe
dinner they can get the filet of sole, plus salad and coffee for $7.95
per person. But if they order a la carte, the filet of sole is only
$5.95, the coffee $1.25, the salad $2.50 -- but it's a large salad with
tomatoes. However, if they share a salad, then substitute the French
onion soup from the Prix Fixe menu for a $1.50 surcharge...
"Are you ready to order?"
asks our waiter.
"We need a little more time,"
says my mother. The calculations resume for several more minutes,
before my parents finally decide upon a "Consumer Reports Best Buy."
"What's the weather like in New
York lately?" asks my father, who seems to have a never-ending
fascination with the subject.
"Seasonal. You know, 30's,
40's."
"You must be freezing your
tuchas off."
"No, it's OK."
"Well, looks like you brought
the cold weather down with you. It's been sunny until now."
"They say it's going down to
the 50's tonight, could you believe?" adds Evelyn.
"Speaking of cold, there's
such a draft in here, you can lose your head yet. Please have them
lower the air conditioning," my mother complains to the waiter.
"Mitchell, put on your sweater, you'll catch a cold, yet."
The waiter says the air
conditioning can't be lowered, but offers to move our table. We all get
up and follow him to another area of the dining room. A busboy tags
along with our bread basket and water glasses in tow.
"Sir! Excuse me, sir! These
rolls are very hard," my mother tells the busboy.
"Rolls too haat?" repeats the
busboy.
"Too hard," not "too
hot," I try to clarify.
"Rolls too haat," nods the
busboy, removing the bread basket. Minutes later he returns with a new
basket of equally hard rolls at room temperature.
Finally ready to place our
orders, Murray chooses the baked scrod, to which his wife comments,
"Oh, no, you don't like that. You like it broiled."
"I want to try it baked."
"You're not going to like it,
and you're going to be disappointed."
"How do you know?"
"I know you."
Murray changes his order.
"Is the Filet of Sole fresh?"
my mother grills the waiter.
"Yes, ma'am, it's very good."
"Because if it's too fishy, I
don't want it."
When the soup arrives, my mother
sends it back, asking them to reheat it. She insists I send mine back
too, but I assure her it's fine. Later in the meal, she informs the
waiter that "The last time we were here, the portions were much
larger." The waiter walks away rolling his eyes, and virtually ignores
us for the rest of the evening.
"Generally, you really get a
lot for your money down here," my mother says proudly. "Not like in New
York. What do you pay when you go out to dinner at home?" she asks me.
"Let's just say the appetizer
usually costs more than your entire Early Bird."
"My god, I don't know how you
can afford -- or why you still want to live in that sewer. The crime,
the dirt, the traffic ... it's such a nicer way of life down here," she
gloats. "When you go on a date, do you go Dutch?"
"No."
"So what does it cost you? I
bet $50 for the two of you?"
"If not more."
"What do they charge for the
movies there now?" asks Murray.
"$8.00."
"That's a crime," says
Evelyn. We have the $2.00 movies on Tuesdays up in Boca. We just saw,
ummm, ... oh what was the name of it? ... Mr. Gump, with that Bob Hanks
fellow. Very enjoyable."
"I don't know. When your
sisters were dating, they always went Dutch," says my mother.
"Well, maybe they dated
losers."
"Didn't they go Dutch, Joe?"
she asks my father.
"I don't recall."
"All the young girls today
work. If they're so into this Womens' Lib thing, the entire cost of the
date shouldn't have to come out of your pocket."
"Mom, what do you know? You
haven't been on a date since the Roosevelt administration."
"Don't make me out to be such
an old fuddy duddy."
"You know, Mitchell, we have
a niece in New York," says Evelyn. "She's a very lovely girl. Would you
like her number?"
"We'll, I don't know. What's
she like?"
"She must be about 28 now, I
suppose. The last time I saw her was about three years ago at my cousin
Gertrude's son's Bar Mitzvah."
"Sure, get him her number.
What does he have to lose?" says my mother.
"She lives in Manhattan, too.
You're practically neighbors," quips Evelyn.
"Give her a call," coaxes my
mother. "She's got to be better than those shiksas you meet in bars, or
wherever it is that you run with your friends. Am I right Joe?"
After 40 years of marriage,
my father knows better than to disagree with my mother, especially in
public.
"Yes, it's about time he
seriously considered settling down and starting a family," says my
father, to my mother's approval.
"Does she have a rich father,
Evelyn?" my mother asks.
After a brief pause, Murray
says, "So Mitchell, I hear you work for IBM."
"No, not exactly. I work for
an ad agency that creates advertising for IBM."
"Oh, really. I saw an item in
the paper today that said IBM is going to build a computing machine
factory in
Singapore," he says. "If you want, I can clip it out for you."
"No thanks. I'm sure my
office already knows."
"Everything is with these
computers today. The typewriters with the TVs on top. It's a different world." All nod in agreement.
As dinner concludes, the waiter
appears with our check, which my father microscopically inspects. "You
have to be very careful, because they very often make mistakes." He
alerts the waiter that the coffee should have been included in the
price of their meal, and the bill is adjusted accordingly.
The bill comes to $44.35 plus
tax and tip for the five of us. My father presents a coupon from the
Pennysaver which entitles him to an additional two dollars off. Murray
and my father each contribute their respective shares. My mother adds 3
dimes, a nickel and a penny from her change purse to make sure the bill
is evenly split to the last cent.
The waiter delivers a doggie bag of leftover
fish and string beans to my mother, who then wraps the uneaten rolls
along with a handful of Sweet 'n Low packets in napkins, placing them
in her purse. "This is for you for later," she tells me lovingly. I
can't wait.
Actually, I couldn't wait.
Having finished dinner at 6:30, I awake hungry in the middle of the
night, and butter myself some of those hard rolls.
Me and my parents in Florida, 12/99.
This story is dedicated to
the memory of my parents, Shirley and Joseph Lemus.
