Perretti’s Italian Café – 1988

He’s sweet on Flynn. He comes in twice a week, insists on sitting in her section. Flynn never asks him what he wants for dinner. He always orders the same thing: veal parmigiana. She brings him a Diet Coke and a couple of minutes later, the veal.

Tonight Miss Richly is manning the front desk when Don saunters in like he owns the joint.

“Flynn,” he says, as if just saying her name will be enough. She doesn’t tell him that Flynn is off tonight, and clandestinely seats him in my section.

Miss Richly finds me.

“I sat Flynn’s regular in your section. He has OCD or something worse. Flynn knows how to handle him. Tread lightly.”

The guy’s mid-forties, probably a CPA, has the personality of man who’s never far from his mother. He’s wearing one of the countless homemade sweater vests she probably knits him every year for Christmas.

He sits. He holds his hands high like a freshly scrubbed surgeon and pushes the table-setting aside with his right elbow. His fingers are red-raw from constant washing. I bring him a menu even though I know exactly what he’s going to order.

“Hey, Don,” I say, handing him the menu. He refuses it.

“I don’t need that. Where’s Flynn?”

“She took the night off.”

“She’s here every Friday. She never misses. She brings me extra napkins so I can clean my own silverware.”

“I know, but her boyfriend is running for President. Well, his stand-up persona is running for President. And there’s a rally for him in Thompson Square Park. It’s a joke of sorts. Her boyfriend’s a big noise with MTV or Comedy Central or both. Maybe you’ve seen him. His name is–”

“She has a boyfriend?”

“Yeah, for about a year now. So…is it going to be Veal Parmigiana tonight?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your usual. Veal Parmigiana. Isn’t that what you always order? In fact, I shouldn’t tell you, but, get this, Flynn has a really cute nickname for you: Don Parmigiana.”

“Don what?”

“Parmigiana.”

His lips twitch; his eyes cross; he begins a slow and steady rocking as he rapidly taps the table with open fists.

“She calls me ‘Don Parmigiana?’”

I know I crossed a line. I do my best to assuage the guy.

“We all do. It’s kind of endearing, don’t you think.”

“I do not like being named for what I eat.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry. So are you going to change from your usual?”

“I don’t have a usual!”

“All right, okay then. I’ll come back when you’re ready to order.”

I’ve been in the business long enough to know when to leave a customer alone. I run some food; have a cigarette, take an order on table 41, return to Don’s table. He’s not there. My regular, Peter Tinker, is at the table adjacent to Don’s. Peter tells me: “He borrowed my pen, but only after I wiped it with three napkins. Then he wrote something on the tablecloth, got up and stormed out.”

I look at the tablecloth. It reads: “You Suck. Flynn sucks. You all suck. Signed, Don fucking Parmigiana.”

Peter leans over and reads the note.

“He stole my pen.”

We never see Don Parmigiana again.