Wednesday, Nov. 11

Natalie was fine today. Bored with the flu. Bored with sitting on the sofa. Bored with drawing cats. Bored. Dead bored. She’s so over the flu – literally, as well Since she had no fever, we went to her piano recital, with the understanding the instructor would wipe the keyboard after she was done. She’d been practicing her new composition for months, and had another new piece that was leagues above anything she was doing last year, so we weren’t going to miss this – and it’s not like she’s sneezing or runny-nosed. We would hustle her in, have her play, then leave.

But first, the tradition of Perkins. Before every recital, we go to Perkins, and laugh over the games provided for the small fry. Always the same, with different themes. Same weird anthropomorphic desserts, lorded over by Jeff the Chef. This theme was “music,” so “tic tac toe” was “mic tac toe.” I explained this didn’t work. That would be Maik-tac-toe, not mick-tac-toe. She agreed.

Examined the menu; looked for the patty melt. They did not have a patty melt. Well, they moved the patty melt to its own page, then: something that would honor its unique place in comestible lore. But there was no patty melt page. There was a new type of melt that had bacon and onion rings – and came with fries. Also sauce. This would not do.

“You didn’t cancel the patty melt, did you?” I asked the waiter.

He said it was gone.

They say you see the flash of the atom bomb before you feel the heat and the wind. This was like that.

“Gone?”

“Believe me, you’re not the only one,” he said.

“Gone?”

“It’s not on the menu,” he said, “but they can make you one.” He said this sotto voce, as if giving me the password that would get me to the Underground.

I said I would have one. I would show them the errors of their way. Perhaps someone back in the kitchen would say YES when the order came through: another one who’s not going to take it from the Man, man.

Another waiter came over.

“The patty melt will be on the next menu,” he said.

“So they realized their grave mistake?”

“Guess so.”

“We can still make one now,” said my waiter.

“Yes,” said the other waiter, adding: “we got the rye in today.”

So they got new rye but it’s not on the menu. Don’t you guys UNDERSTAND? They will use the low consumption rate on the rye to validate their decision to take it off the menu! WE’RE BEING PLAYED, ALL OF US!

Natalie had the breakfast, since she hadn’t eaten in days. I had the patty melt.

It was okay.

When the waiter came by to ask if we wanted anything else, I said nope, off to the piano recital. He said he used to play piano, but now played synths. Really? What kind of music? Trance, he said, his inflection apologizing in advance for using a word I probably didn’t know, me being, well, dad-demographic and all that. I said I loved trance. Really?

“Ever hear of Armin Von Buuren?”

Sure. Three clicks of the iPhone, call up the playlist. He whips out his iPhone and shows the wallpaper: Armin!

“I was this close in a concert.”

“Cool!”

He writes down his myspace page; it’s here. Kid plays Christian Trance, a genre you probably haven’t heard. News to me. Anyway, nice guy; wish him well. He was very good with customers, especially the elder versions.

Everyone should work in a restaurant when they’re young. Nothing teaches you about people, workplaces, businesses, and the public, like a restaurant. I still think my entire professional outlook is predicated on getting a tip in 30 minutes. Ever work in a restaurant? Some people remember it as drudgery and hellishness defined; I suppose it depends. For me – two Pizza Hut stints, then the glorious run at the Valli – it was the best lesson in The World I’d had.

Later this morning: Out of Context Ad Challenge. I’ll be back on NewsBreak, if you care. Was scheduled for Thu-Fri, but asked to be bumped up in case I get the flu.

Because I hear there’s something going around.