The Italian Restaurant

This past weekend, we had a lovely dinner at the home of my brother's godmother, Lin.  Lin grew up in Dallas but has lived in Brooklyn for several years.  She told us a wonderful story about the time her sister Sally came to visit her in the big ole city, and CiB would like to recount it for you with a paintbrush interpretation.

Sally arrived in New York with a simple agenda.  She had heard so much about the Italian food up north where Yankees live but had never experienced it.  Unfortunately for all Southerners, not many Italian folks made their way from Ellis Island to beyond the Mason-Dixon line in the 19th century or anytime after, so authentic Italian food is difficult to come by.  Sally was determined to get her pasta on before she left the big ole city.

She told Lin about her need to eat at a real Brooklyn Italian restaurant.  She was unable to accompany Sally at that particular hour, and unbeknownst to Lin, Sally had forgotten her glasses at home, and the dry airplane air had irritated her eyes, so she was unable to wear her contacts.  So Lin gave Sally a few simple directions to the nearest authentic Italian restaurant in her neighborhood, and off Sally went.

She saw a (blurry) sign written in Italian, with people dressed in their Sunday best standing outside.

So she went in.

Being a Southerner, Sally was not discomfited by the fact that there was a buffet in this authentic Italian restaurant, so she followed the crowd to the large table at the end of the room, excited that she would get to sample so many items.

And there was the corpse.

And that's how my brother's godmother's sister Sally thought she was at an Italian restaurant but had actually ended up in a funeral parlor.

And this is a very similar story to our previous paintbrush post, but you still liked it and you know it.