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.
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.
