Joe's Ravioli

Joe’s Ravioli
by Chris Horne

His voice rings in my ears at night when I try to sleep. It haunts me each day, that low growl intimidating me as I drive around Macon. The words feel forever etched on my brain—nay, my heart—NO, my soul.

“Hi, I’m Joe with Joe’s Ravioli. I’m from Brooklyn but I’m in Macon now and I’m real happy to be here,” he begins. Joe. From Brooklyn, an accent I butcher every time I try to relay his message of authentic Italian-American cuisine.

Naturally, going to Joe’s Ravioli for dinner, it took everything I could muster to keep my impersonations of Joe to a minimum. See, it isn’t an impersonation as much as it is a Tourette’s Syndrome-like outburst. Instead of profanities and shouts, I’m inclined to ask, “When was the last time you had sausage and peppers?” Or, to repeat, in the threatening fashion of Joe, who makes his grandmother’s Sunday Gravy “Ev’ree day,” or, to exclaim, “Look at the size of that tiramisu!” (Which is something I literally did when the waitress brought ours to the table.)

It was my task to keep that stuff under wraps and to remember that I went for the food, not because I was drawn like an Argonaut to the shore by the siren song of Joe’s Ravioli. In fact, I did pretty good. Doc Brown only had to kick me under the table a couple of times for lapsing into Joe-nese.

What does someone eat at Joe’s Ravioli if not ravioli? I opted to find out, choosing the lemon chicken dish, which was incredibly tangy. If you don’t like that sort of thing, stay away. My darling date is someone who will now stay away. Meanwhile, I was moaning to myself about how good it was, a bright and tart taste explosion. As Moe the Bartender once said on The Simpsons—about a Flaming Homer (don’t ask)—“It’s like there’s a party in my mouth and everyone is invited.” That’s how I felt about it. Unfortunately, when you try to invite people to the party in your mouth, they think you’re weird and ask to be seated at a different table.

Doc Brown, who is growing accustomed to my increasingly weird behavior, chose the safe route: ravioli. But not just any ravioli—not even just Joe’s ravioli—the Lobster Ravioli, which came in a creamy red sauce. I’m sure there’s a technical name for it, but creamy red sauce is pretty descriptive and unless you’re a high-falutin’ gourmet type, you know what I mean. This sauce had a seafood taste, but that could’ve been the lobster that was reportedly inside the ravioli. I would’ve wanted more lobster if it were my dish, but then again, I would’ve just wanted a whole lobster. Sadly, I cannot afford much more than bits of lobster in ravioli, which would only, as George Clooney’s character in Oh Brother Where Art Thou said, “…arouse my appetite without bedding it down any.”

Yes, I’m in a let’s-quote-things mood.

The dessert came and it was good. It was tiramisu. I looked at the size of it. I instructed the waitress to do the same. She snickered. We ate. We rolled out of there and made plans to return. It’s a good restaurant and I mean that. I liked it, and I’d gladly return—like I said, I’m planning to. The atmosphere was charming, the food excellent and the prices more than reasonable. My only complaint is that I didn’t get to meet Joe.