On the road: Italian Food, North Carolina Hospitality

After driving for ten hours you begin to think about a modest treat to end the day. And so it was last week returning to Texas from New York; an urgent family situation made the snap-trip necessary.

The last time I checked – a few years ago – Italian was still the most numerous of ethnic food restaurants in America.

This particular evening one of them was found a mile off Interstate 95S Lumberton, North Carolina, exit.

On the east side access road paralleling the highway is a neighborhood Italian – Adelio’s – that piggybacks off hotel chain EconoLodge, and its sign. [Note the accompanying picture and that the camera was obviously as tired as the photographer using it.] The check-in person at our hotel gave it a thumb’s up: for the place, certainly not the fuzzy image.

[I went solo while my daughter Hannah and dog Ernie stayed at our hotel.]

Immediately off the lobby to the left is the Italian eatery. I took a table just inside the door. Thirst overtook hunger as I first ordered an ice cold draft of Yuengling; yes, the beer that made Philadelphia famous, or was it the other way ‘round?

Ah, the wonders that those first few sips do to bring a parched traveler back to life.

The attentive young-lady wait-person took my order of chicken Francesca: chicken cutlet in butter lemon sauce topped with melted parmesan cheese and a generous portion of Texas-sized penne. And yes Ma’am, I’ll keep eating the bread and butter as long as you keep bringing it.

The green salad was put aside to eat after the entrée.

Sitting back in the chair accompanied by a few of my own sighs and disappearing suds I turned my attention to the place itself. It was a roomy dozen tables or so dressed in homey classic Italian-American restaurant furnishings, minus red-checkered table cloth’s.

There were a couple tables occupied at the far wall. Down there was a middle-aged man flitting between them performing as much as attending to their gastronomical needs. I could overhear an occasional word or two and he was doing what every good restaurant manager does – or should do – talking up the cuisine and making each patron feel special.

Another table was family full as paw paw got a HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU and very young granddaughter giggled it all in while standing on a chair.

Over to their right had been seated four initially serious looking southern businessmen: their boots gave them away. The table hopper brought the leading grey hair to smiles as he extolled the virtues of the place to his buddies.

Continuing the impresario’s whirlwind he diverted to the wine shelf to grab a bottle including a pas de deux with the waitress: she grinned as it seemed he was giving her good-natured kitchen advice.

As I slowly savored the simple but I-sure-would-return meal, the wait-person twisted my arm and forced me to order the home-made chocolate cannoli’s for desert. They were plural because they were small, but oh so good.

As my road-fatigue vanished I asked the server what was the name of the man making the rounds of the tables and was he the owner or manager.

“Oh, Bo ….he just works here.”

Shortly thereafter he came over, shook my hand firmly and thanked me for coming.

I can count on the fingers of one hand the exceptional meals I have had all over the world and every one included a man or a woman like Bo. And no, the bill did not have to be three digits either.

[Note: Once the receipt is located I should be able to add the name of the waitress.]