A Little Ice Cream

Every Sunday when he was at home my Old Man would take us out for a Sunday night dinner at his Country Club of which he was a member.

Dressed in our best clothes and prepped to be on our best behavior – Matty and I were herded into the Club restaurant, where once seated we’re given menus by the Maitre D’.

Our menus were immediately snatched from our grubby paws by my parents as they determined we were too young to order for ourselves.

But, I think the main reason we weren’t allowed to order was that my cost-conscious Pop was notoriously cheap and he figured we’d probably order something stupid like steak.

So it was chicken or spaghetti for us kids (child’s plate size) and Prime Rib and salad bar for the adults.

Now back in the 1960s, a salad bar rarely contained anything but “salad.” Yes, there was potato salad, egg salad, fruit salad, macaroni salad, and jello but no green stuff.

My Old Man usually had two ginormous plates from this paen to American gluttony before tucking into his succulent Prime Rib dinner.

Oh, how Matty and I drooled over these heavenly slabs of meat our parents consumed as we dutifully ate our chicken and tasteless spaghetti dinners. Both of us secretly plotted how to later purloin the doggy bag without getting caught which would have resulted in an epic ass-whoopin’ by my Dad.

The only thing we were allowed to order was dessert.

Which was a joke really, because the club restaurant only served Spumoni.

Spumoni in our eyes was an abomination – a travesty masquerading as ice cream. This bizarre concoction – consisting of three layers of chocolate, pistachio, and maraschino cherry – tasted like, well if fruitcake could take a shit – it would probably taste like Spumoni!!

So every week it was Spumoni! Spumoni! AND MORE FREAKIN’ SPUMONI!!

Eventually, we wised up and stopped ordering dessert which must have made our father happy when it came to paying the check.

Yep, nowadays I rarely order dessert at restaurants.

And if I do – it’s never ice cream!