It was our last night before heading back to D.C. In appreciation for handing out mini-papers in front of grocery stores, The Congressman treated us to a dinner at a local Italian restaurant.
This is where my Dad picked up a pizza every Friday night because my Mom “didn’t do Fridays.” Even recently renovated, it looked like somewhere you would find Uncle Junior eating dinner at four in the afternoon.
We were starving. It didn’t matter that at almost every stop there was food because The Congressman never ate.
So if he didn’t eat, we didn’t eat.
The Guatemalans must have had a previous engagement, and in their stead appeared several campaign “Hangers-On”; political junkies who usually had low-level elected positions in local government.
Typically middle-aged men who didn’t have wives or girlfriends and considered the fellowship of campaigning akin to being a member of the Kiwanis Club or Stonecutters (neither of which would ever let them in, but maybe they had a shot with the Elks).
With the influx of new faces and orders of beer and wine going around, no one batted an eye when Peter and I did the same.
I don’t remember what I ordered to eat, but rest assured it was the least expensive thing on the menu.
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