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Al's Cafe

By Tom Di Roma

Born 1947, M, from Oceanside, United States

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Al’s Café

From the outside, Al’s Café looks like a pathetic little hole in the wall. But once you step inside, you realize you’ve entered another dimension—a dimension where the interior is huge and filled with various sized tables and chairs specifically set up to fit any shaped butt.
The walls, which are decorated with both Star Wars and Star Trek memorabilia, have their own internal illumination source, which pours out colored lights that move in time to the electronic-music on the sound system. The café’s staff boasts a small army of both human and alien waiters, waitresses, and busboys, all of whom flit about like shoppers on Black Friday.
Meanwhile Al, who runs the place with a gentle but practiced hand, sits Jabba-like on his thrown-size chair near the cash register. This is where he spends most of his time, keeping a close eye on everything. Actually, in Al’s case, it’s more like three eyes, all different colors.
I once asked him why he kept the outside looking so dinky and pathetic when the inside was so huge and welcoming. His reply? “I can’t have just anyone come in here, can I?”
Actually, what he meant was he couldn’t have just any human come into his establishment. Al’s was more of a way station for off-worlders looking for a touch of home. Otherwise, only a few humans, like myself who don’t mind the look and smell of his clients, or the names of some of the more earthly dishes, are welcomed. For instance, the menu lists one human dish as Butt-Crack Cakes and another as Doggy Poo.
Doggy Poo is actually meatballs and gravy, except the meatballs are more oblong than round, and the gravy is more brownish than red. Butt-Crack Cakes are really crab cakes in the shape of a human butt with a dribble of greenish brown tofu coming out of the crack. These are just a couple of examples of Al’s bizarre sense of humor.
Most of his patrons, whether they’re locals or off-worlders, seem to revel in the ambiance, as well as most of the items on the menu. I’m one of them, which was why I recently opted to become one of Al’s silent partners, and which was why I found myself becoming more than slightly concerned when I learned that a new food critic from The Galactic Gazette was coming to do a piece on Al’s. Would he or she give it a good review, or would they trash the place? As a silent partner, I kept thinking about what a bad review could do to our bottom line, especially since a new restaurant similar to ours had just opened only two systems away.

It turned out, I was having lunch the day the food critic showed up. Of course, at first, none of us knew she was the food critic. We just knew she didn’t look familiar. Long black hair and a narrow, pale- looking face, she wore a neck to ankle black dress that hugged her voluptuous curves, and had a red teardrop painted on every one of her very sharp looking, black-colored finger nails.
After taking a while to study the menu, she ordered a plate of Dog Poo and a bowl of Crackles. Crackles are Rosarian Tube Worms, which look a lot like Italian pasta, but which are served still alive. Because they’re still wiggling, and because they’re made up of numerous over-lapping segments, they have a tendency to make tiny crackling sounds, almost like Rice Krispies when you first pour milk on them.
I kept watching as the Goth-like stranger twirled the Crackles around her fork, then with her mouth opening a little wider than I thought humanly possible, placed them inside and began to chew. Suddenly, her eyes bulged, and her hands gripped her throat. Immediately, she spit out what had been in her mouth, and began making strangling sounds.
I wanted to help, but before I could do anything, one of the waitresses, who happen to be passing by, saw what was happening and went immediate into action. She began by asking the poor woman if she was choking. With one hand still gripping her throat, and her eyes squeezing out tears of pain, she shook her head and pointed toward her purse. Next, she made rapid jabbing motions with her fist toward the side of her neck. The waitress must have known right away what she meant. Without hesitation, she delved into the woman’s purse and came up with what looked like a really fat Sharpie. Then ripping the cover off one end, she jabbed the Epinephrine needle into the side of the woman’s neck.
I winced as I watched her get jabbed, but felt relief once I saw color begin to return and heard the strangling noises stop.
By now, Al had arrived and was looking ill himself. “What happened?” he asked, his face pinched with deep concern.
“She had an allergic reaction to the Crackles,” replied the waitress.
Al looked from the bowl to the woman, whose fangs had emerged from between her lips. “Oh, my God,” he exclaimed. “I’m so sorry! We should have warned you that the Crackles are sprinkled with garlic juice before they’re served.”
“That’s OK,” replied the female Vampire, while using a napkin to wipe both her lips and fangs. “You didn’t know I was a succubus, and I probably should have asked if there was garlic present before I placed my order.”
“From now on,” said Al, “I’ll have a note put inside every menu warning all future Vampires to ask if there is garlic in their meals. In the meantime, is there anything else we can get you?”
After looking at the menu a second time, the woman ordered an additional five items. I was amazed that she was able to eat at all. I guess not all Vampires live on blood alone.
As for the review—we all waited anxiously for the newspaper to come out. When it did, we were elated. She gave Al’s a sterling review, with one mention in particular bringing in a whole new flurry of customers—our recently introduced “Type-O Blood Smoothies.” Once word got out, every Vampire within flying distance flocked to our restaurant. We even set up a special area just for them. We call it our “Garlic-free Zone.”

Al's Cafe(Tom Di Roma) Al’s Café

From the outside, Al’s Café looks like a pathetic little hole in the wall. But once you step inside, you realize you’ve entered another dimension—a dimension where the interior is huge and filled with various sized tables and chairs specifically set up to fit any shaped butt.
The walls, which are decorated with both Star Wars and Star Trek memorabilia, have their own internal illumination source, which pours out colored lights that move in time to the electronic-music on the sound system. The café’s staff boasts a small army of both human and alien waiters, waitresses, and busboys, all of whom flit about like shoppers on Black Friday.
Meanwhile Al, who runs the place with a gentle but practiced hand, sits Jabba-like on his thrown-size chair near the cash register. This is where he spends most of his time, keeping a close eye on everything. Actually, in Al’s case, it’s more like three eyes, all different colors.
I once asked him why he kept the outside looking so dinky and pathetic when the inside was so huge and welcoming. His reply? “I can’t have just anyone come in here, can I?”
Actually, what he meant was he couldn’t have just any human come into his establishment. Al’s was more of a way station for off-worlders looking for a touch of home. Otherwise, only a few humans, like myself who don’t mind the look and smell of his clients, or the names of some of the more earthly dishes, are welcomed. For instance, the menu lists one human dish as Butt-Crack Cakes and another as Doggy Poo.
Doggy Poo is actually meatballs and gravy, except the meatballs are more oblong than round, and the gravy is more brownish than red. Butt-Crack Cakes are really crab cakes in the shape of a human butt with a dribble of greenish brown tofu coming out of the crack. These are just a couple of examples of Al’s bizarre sense of humor.
Most of his patrons, whether they’re locals or off-worlders, seem to revel in the ambiance, as well as most of the items on the menu. I’m one of them, which was why I recently opted to become one of Al’s silent partners, and which was why I found myself becoming more than slightly concerned when I learned that a new food critic from The Galactic Gazette was coming to do a piece on Al’s. Would he or she give it a good review, or would they trash the place? As a silent partner, I kept thinking about what a bad review could do to our bottom line, especially since a new restaurant similar to ours had just opened only two systems away.

It turned out, I was having lunch the day the food critic showed up. Of course, at first, none of us knew she was the food critic. We just knew she didn’t look familiar. Long black hair and a narrow, pale- looking face, she wore a neck to ankle black dress that hugged her voluptuous curves, and had a red teardrop painted on every one of her very sharp looking, black-colored finger nails.
After taking a while to study the menu, she ordered a plate of Dog Poo and a bowl of Crackles. Crackles are Rosarian Tube Worms, which look a lot like Italian pasta, but which are served still alive. Because they’re still wiggling, and because they’re made up of numerous over-lapping segments, they have a tendency to make tiny crackling sounds, almost like Rice Krispies when you first pour milk on them.
I kept watching as the Goth-like stranger twirled the Crackles around her fork, then with her mouth opening a little wider than I thought humanly possible, placed them inside and began to chew. Suddenly, her eyes bulged, and her hands gripped her throat. Immediately, she spit out what had been in her mouth, and began making strangling sounds.
I wanted to help, but before I could do anything, one of the waitresses, who happen to be passing by, saw what was happening and went immediate into action. She began by asking the poor woman if she was choking. With one hand still gripping her throat, and her eyes squeezing out tears of pain, she shook her head and pointed toward her purse. Next, she made rapid jabbing motions with her fist toward the side of her neck. The waitress must have known right away what she meant. Without hesitation, she delved into the woman’s purse and came up with what looked like a really fat Sharpie. Then ripping the cover off one end, she jabbed the Epinephrine needle into the side of the woman’s neck.
I winced as I watched her get jabbed, but felt relief once I saw color begin to return and heard the strangling noises stop.
By now, Al had arrived and was looking ill himself. “What happened?” he asked, his face pinched with deep concern.
“She had an allergic reaction to the Crackles,” replied the waitress.
Al looked from the bowl to the woman, whose fangs had emerged from between her lips. “Oh, my God,” he exclaimed. “I’m so sorry! We should have warned you that the Crackles are sprinkled with garlic juice before they’re served.”
“That’s OK,” replied the female Vampire, while using a napkin to wipe both her lips and fangs. “You didn’t know I was a succubus, and I probably should have asked if there was garlic present before I placed my order.”
“From now on,” said Al, “I’ll have a note put inside every menu warning all future Vampires to ask if there is garlic in their meals. In the meantime, is there anything else we can get you?”
After looking at the menu a second time, the woman ordered an additional five items. I was amazed that she was able to eat at all. I guess not all Vampires live on blood alone.
As for the review—we all waited anxiously for the newspaper to come out. When it did, we were elated. She gave Al’s a sterling review, with one mention in particular bringing in a whole new flurry of customers—our recently introduced “Type-O Blood Smoothies.” Once word got out, every Vampire within flying distance flocked to our restaurant. We even set up a special area just for them. We call it our “Garlic-free Zone.”

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COMMENTS (1)

BEN BROWN

07/05/2023

A great story. Well done.

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Al's Cafe

COMMENTS (1)

BEN BROWN