Villa Sorrento

My actual post will be about this quirky Italian restaurant but I wanted to segway briefly, and complain about the slight case of laryngitis I have- as diagnosed by WebMD and the Mayo clinic informational website. Remember when I almost came close to not dying with a bad case of the flu? Well it all started like a week ago with the compulsive clearing of the throat, and what seemed like a nest of phlegm in the back of my throat... I said, hark?! What is such a thing as this?! I wonder when this viral hap-flappery will dissipate. One can only hope it doesn't advance to the stage "consult physician."... ahem. sip tea. begin.

SO. Onward to Villa Sorrento's. Where I began to wonder the sorts of things I was missing, the people I never get to see, bcs my existence is my own and not someone elses. It all began innocuously enough- Dad said, let's go to dinner. We've even been to this place before for lunch and dinner- I am usually unenthused, and it has always struck me as an odd place, quiet, carpeted, with stock Italian vistas painted and framed on the wall... an uninhabited piano in the middle of the room, a vacant and dark bar to the back, and if were lucky a group of old guy italians playing card games. Only one waiter and food that looks and tastes home cooked- which I think means no homaganized flair and it is perhaps because what I order is drenched in a butter sauce. mmm. and as a last touch a vat of dietcoke in those big pizza joint glasses. Now to preface, the rarity of this place: it is. These places do not exist in a certain perimeter of Los Angeles. I know, without a doubt- they exist elsewhere, but here they do not. Here this place would be considered a hole and it is, as it is not frequented by well dressed young up-and-comers, no matter how tasty the food- And also realizing this and the vast parking lot property behind the place, it is endangered- One day the owner will die or get an offer he can no longer refuse and sell out. Soon after the place will close, suddenly, with no notice and be mown down for an apartment complex. You will frown everytime you pass it by. You will tell your children what used to be there. You will complain about the density issues and the problem of finding good reasonably priced dining - with parking. And you will cry.

ON. this particular evening right between the vat of coke and the authentic italian salad with bruchetta and cantalope, an old man sat down at the piano. and thus began a navigation of odd characters- a thin man who sang romantic ballads, with brown hair to his shoulders like a victorian maestro, but a too sweet and tempered voice, the aged platinum blonde who could barely rein her stacatto saprano... and then the mafia crew who could be seen to be openly disparaging the other two-a guy who belonged with a pint on a warf, but as noted by sarah, his track pants and sneakers said otherwise, and the white suited character, and the western shirt wearer- but we came to soon to see that these guys knew what they were talking about - with their deep italian voices, loud enough to carry some old world room- shaking patrons out of their red-sauced stuper... toupes and all- we waited for them to sing again but only got a few treats before we'd finished the tiramasu, paid the bill and sat to be tortured by the waifed crooners. I waited patiently. We asked the waitress if this always occured. She said, yes. on sundays. always... I made a note of it, ticking perhaps a later time- as I think the better voices came more frequently later... And all during this select serenading I felt transported, as the saying goes, to a place and time- not all my own- so glad of it- it made me want to travel- but not bcs i was bored but bcs i realized that this is what other worlds hold when i deviate from my routine- and then i began to hope that places such as these won't be eaten up for chains and stock taste- and i got a whist of nostolgia for when i will say, when i was young...