NSA Dinner

I am an hour and a half early. Things like this are always happening to me.

But I don’t have to wait outside, which is good, because it is dark and freezing and Belltown reminds me of Gotham City before the dark knight saves the day and the sun comes out. Instead of waiting on the sidewalk or in its gargantuan parking lot, The Old Spaghetti Factory, which date #1 (henceforth named the bridge builder) has suggested, has a sprawling waiting area, ornately decorated to look like a cross between an Italian grandmother’s living room and, I presume, a spaghetti factory. There are overstuffed couches and chairs everywhere and the room is abuzz with frazzled parents running after crying/screaming children because this is a family establishment and it is 5:30. However, this means that if I don’t mind the scene, I can sit in one of those overstuffed chairs for an hour and a half without any of the hostesses noticing or approaching me to ask “if I have a place I can go to”. In fact, the wait is roughly that long; I blend in fine.

The Old Spaghetti Factory is a chain restaurant that is a cheaper version of Bucca Di Beppo, but with more class than the Olive Garden. It’s a weird choice for a restaurant, but I’m not complaining. The idea of a ten dollar pasta dinner that comes with bread, salad, and dessert is positively thrilling. I hear they have spumoni. I love spumoni.

this was the best photo to be found online. next time, I’ll bring my own camera.

The Bridge Builder is a student in civil engineering at UW. Neither one of us spots the other in the waiting area and we both put our names on the list and when we finally do realize who the other is, we’re both holding those pagers they hand out now at big chain restaurants. I give my pager back and we wait around for our table, making small talk. For a second, I feel like she is checking me out to see how poor I actually look. This happens to me a lot.

After a couple slices of bread and a few bites of salad, it occurs to me that the bridge builder is exactly who you would expect to buy a stranger dinner, if you would expect anyone to do that at all. She’s amicable and sweet, she laughs easily and often throughout dinner, and she seems genuinely interested in getting to know me. She is the definition of nice. I like her. If she were my friend, she would be the friend I would call if my car broke down fifty miles outside of town in the middle of the night and I needed a jump. These are the kinds of things I think about when I’m an hour and a half early for things.

I order fettuccine alfredo with broccoli, because I haven’t eaten any vegetables today and I can’t remember the last time I had fettuccine alfredo. Usually I can guilt trip myself into ordering something that with more vegetables by the time my order is taken. The conversation in between the time we order and the food arriving is not that weird. I am surprised by how quickly we get over the whole weird hurdle of me showing up to be paid for and her showing up to be my sugar mama for the evening. By the time we’ve finished our salad, it feels like we’ve been friends for years. We are joking and laughing and enjoying our random act of call and response.

Everything is very good for an unremarkable chain establishment. Fettuccine alfredo can go really awry in cheap restaurants, but the pasta had the right amount of sauce that was neither too creamy nor too cheesy, and the broccoli was fine. The portion of pasta is generous and there’s enough leftover for a second meal. For dessert, they do have spumoni– it’s an american bastard version of spumoni, but it is sweet, creamy, cold, and fabulous. I don’t think I have ever enjoyed a meal this much. I am full, I have eaten most of the right food groups, I have met a nice girl and I don’t have to think about lunch tomorrow, either.

With a simple “good luck to you”, I thanked her for the meal and we parted ways. It was that simple. I thought of her again the next afternoon when I reheated my leftovers.