There was a restaurant across the street from city hall. Dad dragged us there all the time, ostensibly because it was cheap, but really because it was always packed and Dad loved nothing better than to hold court in a roomful of people he seemingly all knew.
Today it struck me that we rarely entered through the front door. We’d walk in through the back, weave through the kitchen, and pop into the far corner of the dining room. Then a waitress would notice us and lead us to a table ahead of the long line of people waiting out front.
I swear, my dad wasn’t in the mafia. Looking back, though, I’d love to how this came to be our routine.