His name was Pecarino Romano, but everyone called him “Cheese.” Some found his personality grating. I found him delightful, though he could be hard and a bit salty. Right after I told him that, Romano warned me, “I think that’s about enough with the cheese references.”
If only it were that easy. They say that those in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, but where does that leave those in stone houses? Throwing glass? Or NOT throwing glass? When I asked these very questions of Cheese Romano, he threw his glass of chianti at me. The stain on my Spin Doctors shirt never came out, to say nothing of the stain on my soul.
Whispered musings near the Outback Steakhouse door caught Cheese by surprise that night. A mystery woman in a burlap jerkin murmured, “cheese might be cheddar…” In Cheese’s world of subterfuge and subtlety, ‘cheddar’ could mean almost anything. Even murder.
To Cheese, murder wasn’t something you spoke of in mixed company, let alone near the Outback Steakhouse door, where total strangers and semi-familiar faces alike could listen in and misinterpret your every word, phrase, or syllable. Twist them like so much twisty twisted metal in a mellifluous tongue twister about a local metal twisting exhibition.
With narrowed eyes and puckered lips, Cheese pulled a rusty doubloon out of his hatband and deftly flicked it across the festering divide that was the Outback Steakhouse doorway. The doubloon landed neatly in the mystery woman’s watery Tom Collins. A sly hint of a smile twisted the corner of her mouth when she caught Cheese’s eye. He’d made his point.
Cheese Romano staggered off into the winsome night, visions of her burlap jerkin clouding his thoughts like mayonnaise in a glass of bourbon. I never did see him again. But to this day, if you’re in Cleveland, ask the old timer behind the bar to mix you up a Cheese Romano. Damned if you don’t get the most mayonnaise-y bourbon you’ve ever eaten with a spoon. Just the way Cheese liked it.
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