Ayyy Papa Pastrami makes his return!
Now I don’t do much writing, bambina, but I’m curious how yous think da diaboys would act in my family’s classic Italian restaurant, right near da heart of New York!
Yours writing is terrific despite deez boy’s behaviors. Haha
AAYYYYYYYYYYY PAPA PASTRAMI WELCOME BACK~ ALWAYS DELIGHTED TO SEE YOU IN MY INBOX and grazi for the high-order compliment :D without further ado—
why am i even sitting in this loud, neon-lit trap... you dragged me out saying the olive oil was authentic, but everything smells like a deep-fryer. ...hm? carpaccio? well... at least this beef isn't completely ruined by american grease, though the chef's shouting from the kitchen is rattling my eardrums. hey, old man... "papa pastrami," or whatever it says on the awning. turn down that accordion music before i lose my appetite entirely. and you, don't just sit there staring at my plate. if you're going to be useful, block the view of the street so i don't have to look at new york traffic
i am utterly appalled that you consider this loud, chaotic establishment a classic example of culinary tradition. the sheer americanization of these dishes is an insult to the regions of campania and tuscany, and the general demeanor of the clientele is severely lacking in basic dignity. "papa pastrami"... what a ridiculously uncultivated moniker for a restaurant proprietor. when he brought over the pasta, he actually patted my shoulder with a hand that smelled of garlic cloves and cheap oregano. the insolence was near fatal. sit up straight and put that breadstick down immediately; we are leaving the moment i ensure the espresso isn't an utter desecration
huuh?! whaddaya mean yours truly can't order takoyaki here? this pastrami guy with the giant mustache came over wavin’ a giant pepper grinder like he owned the place, tellin’ me to try the lasagna instead. ...whoa, look at the size of this thing, it's a giant tower of meat and cheese! ore-sama highly approves of this portion size! hey, old man! keep the garlic bread comin’ and tell the kitchen to double the sauce, the king’s starving! whaddaya mean i have to pay the bill? your owner over there said it was on the house ‘cause he likes my face! *he suddenly slurp up a loose strand of spaghetti from your side of the plate, his face instantly inches from yours as the noodle disappears* hah! what's with that stupid look? you thought we were gonna do that dumb puppy cartoon kiss? keep dreaming, chichinashi. if you want a bite of this cheese you better beg nicely. hey, blow on this piece for me
fufu~ what a charming little red-and-white checkered stage we’ve been dragged into, bitch-chan. the proprietor—papa pastrami, was it?—is currently in the back yelling at the dishwashers in a completely broken accent, but it seems he accidentally left a bottle of his finest chianti on our table… ne, look at the way the light hits that giant neon pizza sign outside... ah, how does the song go? when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie... *he leans over the table, giving the elderly waitress a devastating wink as she refills his water glass* grazi, signora, your service is just as sweet as this house red~ look at how red your cheeks are getting... are you jealous because i’m appreciating the local hospitality? papa pastrami over there is glaring at us from the kitchen window like he wants to throw a rolling pin at my head for sweet-talking the staff, but i can’t help it when the atmosphere is this intoxicating. now, why don't you let me feed you this last bite of penne before the old man actually kicks us out into the manhattan drizzle~?
this place is completely unacceptable. teddy is very, very angry because they don't have a single strawberry parfait on the menu, only something called a “cannoli" that looks like a dirty, fried tube. and when i demanded a dessert, that large man came over and tried to hand me a plate of tiramisu to shut me up. it smelled like bitter, disgusting coffee! i hate coffee! it's foul and disgusting! i threw the entire plate straight at his white apron and now he's shouting about his clean laundry. if you don't find me something covered in actual sugar in the next two minutes, i’m going to rip the gnocchi straight out of his kitchen pots and throw it at the front windows until the glass shatters into the street
*a heavy, irritated sigh as he glares at the giant menu* why the hell is everythin’ named after a mob movie in this city?! that old moustache guy kept callin’ me "bambino" when we walked in and it’s annoyin’ as hell. the noise in this neighbourhood is givin’ me a massive headache, and the pizza slices are bigger than my entire head... why are you looking at me like that? it’s just garlic bread, okay?! the old guy practically threw the basket at my chest ’cause he said i looked like i needed to put on some meat, so i’m only eating it so it doesn't go to waste *you point to the small plate of powdered zeppole on the house, asking for a bite* haah?! you want me to feed you? are you completely stupid—do it yourself! *his eyes quickly dart over your shoulder, waiting anxiously for papa pastrami to turn his back toward the kitchen before his face flashes completely scarlet* ...tsk *the second the old man disappears, he aggressively stabs a pastry with his fork and shoves it roughly into your mouth* ...just eat the damn thing already! *he glares intently back at his plate, muttering a soft "idiot" under his breath while secretly tracing the powdered sugar on your lip as your face lights up* ...shut up and finish it before i throw this damn table out the window
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