The Furious Sneeze

At Maximillion’s restaurant, people are frequently heard to say, “That’s a million.” The food is excellent, the patrons appreciative. Each has what the other wants, so it was fortuitous that the restaurant went into business and that their customers kept them in business.

The former had polite eating habits, did not throw food on the floor, were accustomed to wait for their meals - for they were well worth waiting for - without bickering with the waiters who, it should be noted, were in no way responsible for the surge of people who showed up every evening.

The waiters did, however, encourage this behavior by providing excellent service. The restaurant’s owners themselves ought to take part of the credit for the crowds because their portions, aside from being delicious, which was part of what made them worth waiting for, was also “too much,” in the words of one regular and, in the words of a visiting guest from Indianapolis, “Surely, surely a great heaping gob of food, I’ll tell you that.”

In short, the guests had money, and the restaurant had food for sale, and others to cook the food and clean the plates. Can one imagine a better business arrangement than that?

The one other thing Maximillion’s had, which was appreciated by the guests, was atmosphere. Max Maximillion, founder, owner, CEO, and head-chef, retired now, but still active in decision-making, prided himself on the atmosphere of Maximillion’s.

Marble columns supported, well ... nothing really, because the engineering codes required that girders and cross-beams be sufficient to keep the roof from caving in.

You see, everything Max Maximillion did was strictly within the codes of the city, and his feeding of hungry police was nothing more than a courtesy he bestowed upon them because they were protectors of the city rather than a form of bribery. His feeding them was a form of keeping them from sinking into bribery, which was apparently successful, inasmuch as no police officer was ever indicted for any wrong-doing, and the only thing any one of them ever received, which was not strictly their due was, once in a great while, a little unexpected gas. But fine food frequently bestowed this little gift to take home and share with the kids.

The atmosphere was, in a word, endearing. The room was large, over-large, really, and was painted an enchanting royal blue. Furthermore, white motives, ornate but not ostentatious, occurred every so often. Now, I wouldn’t expect white to be featured in a restaurant. One expects pasta sauce to be accidentally flung when the struggle is over and the spaghetti surprisingly gives way. One expects wine to be splashed by over-happy celebrants. Frankly, I consider white to be dull.

But no! Max Maximillion established the policy of scrubbing all the walls every night, a habit which was not in the city ordinances, but which has stayed with the restaurant ever since opening day.

Then there are painted scenes which accurately depict La Scala Opera House and the Cathedral in Milan, the market place in Verona, the Spanish stairs and Trinity Church in Rome, the Coliseums, St. Peter’s Church, the monument to Anita Garibaldi, St. Mark’s on the lagoon in Venice, the ruins of Pompeii, and the Pinte Vecchio in Florence, as well as four houses neatly placed in the center of each wall.

Max Maximillion, and later his son, Ben, were fond of explaining that these houses were “My Aunt Leona’s, my cousin Antonio’s, my great Uncle Paulo’s and, ahh, that ... that is the house in which I was born ... my house.”

Ben repeated these explanations word for word, even though he was born in Trenton, New Jersey.

Now, to quote Max Maximillion, how I loved that restaurant! I loved the food, the employees, most of whom I knew by their first name, and I loved the other people who ate there. How I miss going to Maximillion’s for an obligatory plate of pasta forced on me between my walk from the station house to the alleys of my beat. But, as Max always said, with a shrug of his shoulders, “Things happen, and what can we do once they do?”

I was the unfortunate witness to the destruction of my beloved Maximillion’s. It was unfortunate because, with all the authority of the law behind me, I was helpless to preserve the restaurant.

I saw most of the scene, which destroyed Maximillion’s, and could only hold on to the gold banners, which ran around the walls of the restaurant.

It all started when two lovers came into the restaurant. He was a tall, thin gentleman, obviously feasting more on love than bread, very unlike myself. She was a delicate creature, short, but very attractive. Demur, in fact. When they first sat down, Max, the old romantic pointed them out to me.

The young man whispered something in the girl’s ear. She blushed. He turned away and emitted a gentle sneeze.

“Ahh, look at them! Look at them! Oh, to be young and in love!”

I had to agree with Max.

Their wine was brought. Max gestured for the head-waiter to come to him. “I want to make that bottle of wine a gift to them. Don’t tell them who gave it, or why, just don’t put it on their bill. Okay? And look, if they are honest folks, and they complain to you that it was not added to their bill, give them their whole meal free. Tell them the management honors honesty and love.”

Max then nudged me in the ribs and said, “The more love ... the more honest, ahhh, Frankie?”

I laughed, but continued to watch the two young people.

He had apparently toasted her. She blushed again. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. She dropped her head and he, appearing surprised, sneezed louder than previously.

“He’s catching a cold,” Max murmured to himself.

They chatted amiably until their salad was brought. She ate slowly, selecting pieces from the antipasto. He grouped large amounts of lettuce and tomatoes, onion and Provolone [an Italian cheese] on his fork and shoved it all into his mouth. Between bites, they conversed intimately. She said something, he reached over to touch her cheek, and she responded by laying her head into the palm of his hand.

“How endearing. How endearing!” Max remarked excitedly. “Roberto. When they are finished eating, give their bill to me. I will take care of it. Oh, these young lovers are so precious. So very precious!”

The young man withdrew his hand and wiped his brow. As he did so, another sneeze occurred. This sneeze was terribly loud, so much so that Max and I heard it from the back of the restaurant.

“He’s got to go see a doctor. He’s got to take something for that cold,” Max exclaimed.

“Yes,” I agreed.

After their salad, their large table was filled to capacity with spaghetti, bread and butter. I stood watching them eat. He leaned close to her after his first bite and missed her cheek this time. As he withdrew, he emitted a seismographic sneeze. It was so loud and threatening that I swear the table shook.

“Ahh, you are imagining things, you old goat,” Maximillion said.

The young lady now looked worried for the first time. She leaned close to him, offering a tissue she'd pulled from her handbag. He took the tissue and sneezed an uproarious sneeze which literally blew the dishes around on the table. The young man cupped his fingers to his mouth. The young woman jumped to her feet, went behind him, and leaned over to make sure he was all right. He nodded his head to indicate that he was.

Maximillion’s eyes were as large as marbles by now.

The young man sneezed once more, a sneeze so powerful that it elongated his fingers to twice their normal length.

I turned to Max. “What the ...”

The next sneeze blew open the doors which led to the kitchen behind us. Max was dumbfounded. He tried to speak, but no words emerged from his mouth.

“Good gracious!” I stammered.

His next sneeze was so potent that it blew the doors behind us right off their hinges. Pots and pans went flying in the kitchen as the staff began dodging the plates and trays and customers who were blown in there with the force of the wind.

Immediately, another sneeze occurred, a sneeze so omnipotent it pushed La Scala Opera house through Aunt Leona’s house, right into the lagoon of Venice - which was now in Florence.

Max and I made our way toward the front of the restaurant, grasping onto the hand-railing on the wall.

There seemed to be a moment of respite, so our progress was good. We were close enough to hear the terrified young woman talking with the dazzled young man. Their voices were only murmurs, but we knew a steady stream of conversation was occurring between the sneezes.

We were nearly at their table when a cosmologically ontological sneeze blasted away the entire rear of the restaurant from whence we had come. Between the clattering uproar of cracking beams, shattering chandeliers and agonizing cries of fleeing patrons, we overheard the following conversation.

He said, “Oh, Jenny, please, please excuse me.”

She said, “Excuse you! You had better excuse me before you send me flying back to my ancestry.”

So saying, she turned and abruptly left the restaurant. Once gone, the young man felt immediately better. His nose was no longer flanging and tickling, and his shoulders relaxed. He looked relieved, and was straightening his tie as Roberto approached.

Roberto handed him the silver tray with the itemized list of consumed goods. “It’s all a gift of Mr Maximillion himself,” Roberto said with a waiterly smile.

“Thank you, my good man.”

Max looked incredulous.

“Thank you, again. The food was delicious.” Then a worried frown crossed his brow. “But I have apparently lost the woman I love over this dreadful incident. What am I to do now?”

Roberto meekly stood by the young man’s side, waiting to be dismissed. A girder which had been groaning above our heads suddenly uttered its bleak cry of broken despair and crashed to the floor. The table between Max and myself and Roberto and the young man was slammed into oblivion.

The young man, seeming to have missed this flurry of devastation, asked again what he should do, having absent-mindedly stuck his fork in the remains of his spaghetti, was twirling it, and looking perplexed.

“What, oh, what am I to do now?” He raised the fork to his mouth, noticed it was full of food, and answered his own question:

“Ahh, chew.”


- David Schwartz
Cincinnati, Ohio, U.S.A.