The place that I deliver for is an Italian deli. The owner stays in the kitchen most of the time, muttering about how he can't make meatballs when it's 75 in there, but if he could open the door and get it down to 68 then the meatballs would come out right. Daughter's on the cash register, and her kids are running around the place. Besides the second-generation Italian owners, all of the employees are Mexican. So there are usually heated arguments going on in English, Spanish, and Italian over how much crumbled bun ends should go in the aforementioned meatballs.

The owner is dreadfully worried about how well I won't eat in Ghana. "Listen, if you can just find some tomatoes, onions, and garlic- very common vegetables, and of course some pasta, you can make a nice marinara... ooh and a can of clams, for a white sauce..."

Meanwhile, Old Pop is sitting on a stool in the back. He came in for forty years, so now that he's retired, what else is he gonna do? Always yelling in Italian at his son, who's screaming, "Pa, I know, I KNOW! I fought the city for as long as I could!" Old Pop is always trying to convince me not to go to Africa, since he had "shitty time" there in WWII, fighting in the Italian Army under Rommel. Then he was a POW for six years. No wonder he didn't like it!