Ta-Da!

So, I'm sitting in a restaurant in Palermo... I know, I know, Mr. Pretentious here, trying to impress everyone with my European excursions, but I assure you, that's not the intent.  No, my being outside of the U.S. is the reason the event I'm about to relate seemed so bizarre... Okay, so there I was, in the midst of a week's stay in Sicily before embarking on three more glorious weeks all over the beautiful country of Italy, from Capri to Naples, Rome, Florence, as far north as Lake Como, finishing up in Venice (okay, so there's your pretentious), when my wife and I and friends happen upon this rather innocuous little eatery in the heart of of the city.  And it's here that I'm supposed to carry on about how unbelievably delicious the food is in this part of the world--and, man, it really is--only, this place?... yeah, not so much.  But we were tired, and it seemed nice enough, so we decided to plant our flag, take a load off and have a glass of vino while we perused the lunch menu.

It's important to point out that this was in early July of 2024, just months before our November presidential elections.  Also noteworthy was our waiter--let's call him Rocco--a young Sicilian full of vim and vigor, on the very edge of mischief and mayhem, to the point where you knew to keep at least one eye on him at all times. He was dressed suitably enough in black pants and a white shirt, while sporting an Italian Dylan Brown Cap (yeah, I checked; that's what they call 'em over there) atop his rather large melon.  And, get this, the guy was obsessed with our upcoming presidential race, to the point where his political digressions were seriously getting in the way of us being served our meal anytime soon. Having to sit through a pro-Trump rally speech by this Sicilian manchild sounding every bit like an unctuous politician on the stump was tough enough but none of us were ready for his final, "drop the mic" moment where he let out a full-throated "Ta-Da!" and doffed his cap, unearthing a shock of thick orange hair looking every bit like that of "The Donald".

"Ta-freakin'-Da!"... are you kiddin' me?  I mean, there we were, famished, exhausted from walking all morning (seemingly uphill the whole time), the heat index ratcheting its way into the mid-nineties, just looking to place a quick no-nonsense lunch order and enjoy a little peace.  Instead, we're being provided a floor show by a goofy waiter sporting an over-the-top orange comb-over with a fanboy crush on a presidential candidate in a foreign country some 4,500-plus miles away.  To finally be freed from the tyranny of the daily political pablum we'd been experiencing at home in the form of negative ads stuffed in our mailboxes, screamed at us from our TV screens or acted out by the candidates themselves in yet another mind-numbing debate only to be confronted by a Young Republican wannabe moonlighting as a Trump impersonator living all the way across the pond was, like I said... bizarre.   

But here's the deal: the "Ta-Da!" thing?... Yeah, Rocco kinda nailed it.  I mean, the way he got the phrase out just before the ginger mane made the scene (mind you, not a hint of his tangerine-colored mop was evident previously), resulting in his captive audience wondering for that split second beforehand what the fuss was all about, paid off in spades as everyone was blown away by the unexpected parlor trick.  And the way Rocco stood there--arms outstretched with an ear-to-ear grin, as if he'd just finished a solid month of sold-out one-man shows at Madison Square Garden--left everyone momentarily stunned. So, as I said, the meal was nothing to write home about, but this blindsided, over-the-top, surreal dining experience?... hell, I'm getting a blog out of it, right?

Indeed, as much as this crazy episode provides grist for the mill for someone like me who's always searching for a new topic to put on paper, I've no doubt its accompanying fallout will take more than its toll.  From here forward, any time I witness the unveiling of an artist's masterpiece or a newly designed vehicle or a chef's presentation of an exotically prepared meal or the plumber successfully unclogging my drain or even something as simple as a five-year-old holding up her newest drawing; if any of these occasions are accompanied by a "Ta-Da!", it won't be the event in front of me that has my attention.  It'll be Rocco, that daffy Sicilian waiter with the Trump do, I see in my mind's eye.