Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme...Remember me to one who lives (ate) there.

This is the East Side Checker Club on Benefit St in Pawtucket. As a little kid, my parents would take us here to eat on certain Fridays. I was six then and I thought the food was horrible as they spiced and herb-ed their fare to death. I have since grown up and can tolerate the spices and such, but as a small kid, it was over the top for me.

Here's what I did sometimes to escape from having to eat it.

The Checker Club has these very thick, heavy, high backed booths where they sat you. If you wanted a more open table, they had those too but it was the same rough hewn, Medieval furniture. The chairs probably weighed 40lbs a piece.

Since I was a very young boy, my Dad would forever order me the half chicken with penne pasta. Time after time he'd order it. The chicken was strongly flavored with garlic, oregano and thyme. The tomato sauce was just as potent. These seasonings made me gag on it. I wasn't ready for such robust spicing at that age. Don't forget, none of us had any experience with Italian food in Pawtucket way back then as we were either, Irish or Polish.

I would pick, push and prod the chicken and eat it as slowly as I could, gulping down a good dose of soda to kill the flavor with each swallow. I would then be harangued to “finish” up what was on my plate and it became a quiet battle. “I had enough” I'd say. “Nope, finish what you have there.” he'd say back. We'd go on like that till I hoped he'd get tired.

What was first rate about those monster booths were that they had a good sized gap between them and the wall. I'd sit there, eating like an anorexic, letting the food fall from my fork as I stuffed it into my mouth and waiting for the right moment. It would come eventually, as Dad lost all focus on me as he was enjoying his Manhattan cocktails with dinner.

I'd then deftly sneak the half eaten chicken I hated so much down into that gap between the booth and wall. I'd plop my napkin on the plate and sit there, quietly, as if I finished up. Dad never figured it out. The waitress would come, clean off the table and my parent's would order coffee and finish up.

I managed to do this for a couple of weeks or more, I forget. When we returned one time we were given an open table in the middle of the restaurant. My Dad asked why and he was told that the only booths were “reserved.” He thought that odd as they never reserved the booths at all before.

Later on that night while waiting for our coats from the coat girl, I overheard the owner/manager telling one of the waitresses that he figured out where that awful rotting smell of meat was coming from. It was in between the booth and the wall and that it was always a half eaten chicken. I then surmised that we were given the open table because I could not hide any food out in the open like that.

As he told that story to the waitress, I thought it odd how he was smirking at me. I now know he wanted me to hear.

He figured me out.

But today, the food there is top notch if you like family fare in a restaurant that decors itself in dark Elizabethan furniture, deep pile orange carpets and walls like Olde England. I swear the same, sort of piggish waitress from 1969 might still be serving there.