It used to be Garibaldi’s, then it was Sardinia,
now it’s Greek & it’s still the worst restaurant
in the city, so naturally we go there instead of
Suburbia at the Angelika, & Robert orders
octopus, which is rank, while Lucie orders a
Greek salad. “Ugh,” she says, because she
usually likes feta cheese but this stuff tastes like
goat cheese, which she hates. “But Lucie,”
I say, “feta cheese is goat cheese.” She thinks
I’m joking. “Let’s ask the waitress,”
Robert says. We bet the tab on it. And when
the waitress (name of Tricia) confers with her
colleagues, comes back with the hot chocolate,
and says, “The consensus is, we’re not sure,”
I knew I had my poem of the day.
__________
From The Daily Mirror: A Journal in Poetry, Scribner Poetry, 2000.
