This whole lunch thing brought back a lot of wonderful memories of my dad when he was alive.
He loved taking people out to lunch. He was in sales, so I guess it went with the territory. But it didn't matter. He just loved to eat.
And the killer was, he didn't have an ounce of fat on him. But that's another story.
Bottom line, my dad loved lunches so much, he had 'em booked months in advance.
I remember he had one of those day-timer scheduler books, and they were chock full of luncheon dates — sometimes with the same guy popping up over several days or weeks. I don't know if that was my dad's way of wearing 'em down as potential customers.
But I do know they enjoyed them — and him.
He was famous for telling stories. And he had a laugh that would break up a staid room. He was the proverbial bull in the china shop.
See, the apple doesn't fall far from "that" tree.
But he so loved these lunches that some of his clients, who later became buddies, or was it the other way around — well, they'd have their special hangouts with my dad where they'd have some beers, swap some stories and talk about the good old days.
He couldn't fathom a job like mine that often involved grabbing a sandwich on the run, or alone, in a cubicle, and later an office.
"Do you mean you're so high and mighty, your boss can't afford to lose you for even half-an-hour to get some pasta," he'd ask.
"There's just no time, dad," I'd say.
"Make the time," he'd bellow.
"Why?" I'd ask.
"Simple. There are a lot of good Italian joints by you."
You, see, he knew them all. They were on a map, folded, in his day-timer.
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