Mel never looked happier. Food and sports have been his entire life. I had driven down from San Diego to pick him up at the Royal Pacific Assistant Living Apartments. We are at the Huntington Beach Olive Garden on Beach Blvd. He has lived for food his entire life.
As usual, we ordered the spaghetti and all you can eat salad. With the food served, he stuffed his mouth with spaghetti and meat balls, with a regular coke to wash the morsels down.
"Mel, your nose is dripping and under your mouth is a speck of sauce."
"George, can you ask for more bread and salad?" He wiped his nose and removed the sauce from his chin. He dug in for more, more and m-o-r-e.
"Paris, can you bring us more salad and those yummy garlic bread fingers...Guess you read my mind."
Her hands spoke before I uttered the word, "more". Young a lively, she seemed to anticipate our needs. The delightful server went about her work without fanfare or emotion.
You have probably guessed the name of the eatery by now. Beach Street in Huntington Beach is known for their motels, auto lots, and of course: all-you-can-eat-bread-and salad at the Olive Garden Restaurants.
Oh yes, you inquire about the name of Paris? The delightful server went about her work effortlessly without fanfare or commotion.
My brother Mel is almost blind today. It may not have been April in Paris, but this December, it was Christmas at the Olive Garden Restaurant in Huntington Beach.
My day began at the downtown San Diego YMCA. I woke up and wished to shoot myself. Two of my molars had acted up. My stomach growled with food poisoning, and my number 31 tooth screamed, "I want out of here."
Yet bad food and an and an abscessed tooth did not stop me from driving Dolly, my car, to Midway City California. (The little hot dog city is wedged in between the cities of Westminster and Huntington Beach. It has only a few thousand residents.)
Brother Mel has been beached at the Pacific Spartan assistant living center for the past six years. Most of the time he sleeps, but is the first to enter the dining area for his three meals. The only time is when it is food time. I entered his upstairs room at about nine in the morning. Mel rustled out of bed with a big smile on his face.
"Mel, this is your day. We will go to the beach and afterwards the famous Olive Garden restaurant. How has your stomach been?" Mel has had accidents ever since his bladder had been removed. One month earlier, I told him to take pills for his colic stomach.
"I have not had any accidents and feel great." I made sure he wore his diaper and helped his head into my compact Chevy.
We parked on Main and strolled towards the beach. Mel walked slowly and I made sure he did not lose me.
We stayed at the beach for two hours. BJ's restaurant was up ahead but I wished for more, more. m.o.r.e. so we continued east on Beach until we reached the Olive Garden.
I ordered the garlic shrimp appetizer dish wished for spaghetti. Of course I sneaked-in his salad and bread fingers into my plate and repeated the action twice. The salad bowl screamed, "Enough, is enough!"
Mel was almost finished and Paris returned with a bill for our $33 meal, and refilled our coke glasses. She returned with two small packaged mints. I told her to take the two Ben Franklin's and keep the change.
My mood, like always, changes from gloomy to sunny anytime I break bread with brother Mel. Unfortunately, the owner Eddie no longer allows me to eat with him at his apartment. Why his myopic meals are only worth a few bits.
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