Damien Galeone

I have eaten the kebab so fast that the man who has gone into the bathroom when I had a plate full of food does a double take when he comes out to see an empty plate and a fat man lounging in a satisfied loaf. It has been an act worthy of a gastronomical ninja. Fries, kebab and cherry Coke have disappeared into my throat at a speed most often seen seconds before someone gives a Heimlich maneuver and then states a time of death.

I open my notebook and run a finger down the list. I take out a pencil.

✔ Kebab (beef)

✔ Fries

✔ Sugar-packed drink

And then we walk out the door with a small nearby pub in our sights, for it is Pizza Day.

Pizza Day is an important part of my vow to go breadless, carbless, pizzaless and joyless six days a week. Essentially, it is the one day a week I can eat and drink whatever I want. Planning for Pizza Day usually starts the morning after another Pizza Day. I jot down notes on food I am going to eat, things I am going to drink and plot out a regimen of debauchery that Rasputin would have doffed his hat to.

The problem with Pizza Day is that it is often a disappointment. I dream about Pizza Day all week, with each plum and each piece of broccoli that goes into my mouth, I imagine another salty, greasy morsel of Heaven that I am going to stuff into my throat. Thus, Pizza Day is so blown up in my mind that only a flawless day full of perfect meats and tasty beers will quench my pumped up expectations. Therefore almost anything will ruin Pizza Day. An underdone pork chop or a burnt pizza and Pizza Day ends in anticlimactic disappointment, like getting a forehead kiss from a porn star.

But today, things have so far been perfect. I ate eggs for breakfast and drank black coffee that has put a lilt in my step like that of a deranged baton twirler. My kebab was perfect, the fries were crunchy and the cherry Coke a sickly sweet pint of liquid that needs a methadone step down.

Next on my list is Jamesons Irish Whiskey. And since everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day (Observed) we are now walking to a pub in order to procure these and to celebrate the day as O’Katz and McGaleone, who have a far more intimate relationship with the Torah that two temporary Irish boys should. But practicality be damned, today we must obey the Pizza Day list.

“Two Jamesons,” I say, “and two beers.”

The waitress walks away and then comes back immediately. I assume this is the end of my perfect Pizza Day and I imagine the worst: they are out of Jamesons, there is another country-wide prohibition, Americans aren’t allowed to drink there today. She stops at the table.

“There’s a special on Jamesons,” she tells us. We hold our breath. The special includes a discount on Jamesons and knick knacks that come with each round. The catch is that we have to order three or four Jamesons at a time. There seems to be no problem with this catch today.

Four Jamesons come and we raise them. “Happy St. Patrick’s Day and Lechaim!” We drink.

The table fills up with attractive people who normally won’t be seen in public with us and I try to decide the rest of the day’s gastronomical course. There will be fast food. I decide that I will do anything the others do today so as to not upset the precarious balance of Pizza Day perfection. They decide to go to a music club and while I would normally rather sever a finger with a pocket knife than go to a club, I go along. We leave carrying a melee of green-tinted aviator sunglasses and Jamesons T-shirts.

I open my notebook:

✔ Irish Whiskey

✔ Beer

The music club has a small cover charge, but you get a shot with it. We do the shot and step inside. There are rooms of people and good beer, hashish and a tall girl who’s grinning at me. I look behind me to see who she’s looking at, so she smacks me on the nose. “I know you,” she says. I sit down with the others and chat.

I leave the bar in the early morning hours with the tall girl’s phone number (a miracle even for this perfect day), and head to an area with fast food stalls and windows. I order a bucket of chicken that will knock a few weeks off of my life and the check out girl says, “I gave you an extra corn on the cob, don’t tell anyone.”

“I love you.”

She believes me.

A cab is outside and I open its door, “How much to Podoli?” I ask.

“A hundred fifty.” At least fifty Koruna cheaper than usual. I sit down and he pulls down the street, Sympathy for the Devil plays on the radio; my favorite song. I take out my notebook.

✔ KFC

✔ Taxi

I will finish the night with an episode of a forty-year old sitcom and I will eat, drink and be merry. For tomorrow, I dine healthy.