“I know the perfect place.”
Once we walk up the steps to the street level, we are surrounded by hordes of people. It’s sunny out, and in Niagara Falls, that means there will be crowds of tourists lining up the walkways. I imagine there are people from all over the world gathering here. It’s a cool place to be when you realize that so many have come with a similar goal in mind: to experience one of the wonders of the world.
Turning to my right, I quickly remember exactly where we are. “Come. The restaurant is this way.”
We cross the street and walk up the congested sidewalk of Clifton Hills. There are tourists on both sides of the street eager to check out the haunted houses, wax museums, arcade games, and shops. They all jockey for your attention and money. My father hated this street. He said it was the worst part of the experience, but as a kid, I loved it. I remember the enormous dinosaur outside of the minigolf, and the terrifying ghouls that would jump out and invite you inside the haunted houses. There was so much to see and do it was sensory overload for a child that usually played alone in the woods someplace. Secretly, I think my mother liked it, too. She was inspired by what she saw and how people lived their lives. She would always be the one to take me to Clifton Hill whenever I begged my parents to go.
At the top of the hill, I’m disoriented as there are new stores and restaurants, but I quickly spot the signAnticaand smile. “There it is,” I say, pointing to it.
“Oh, there’s a crowd lining up outside. Maybe we should go somewhere else.”
“Absolutely not. I promise you, it’s worth the wait.”
By the time we get to the restaurant, we realize the line is for people wanting to eat inside. “Oh, we have no problem eating outside,” says Frankie, and I agree.
The server takes us to a small table just in front of the restaurant with a red and white checkered tablecloth. I grin widely, so happy that they haven’t changed the décor, even though they expanded and the restaurant is now twice the size that I remember.
“Can I get you ladies something to drink?”
“Um, I’ll have an Aperol Spritz, please?” says Frankie.
Looking at the menu, I see the drink I always order. “And I’ll have an Orangiata.”
The server nods and we scour the menu.
“So, what’s good here?”
“Everything.”
Frankie laughs. “I realize that. But what do you recommend?”
“Definitely the gnocchi. They’re homemade and the most scrumptious little dumplings you’ll ever eat.”
Frankie frowns. “That sounds heavy. We usually go for a salad or quinoa, you know something light.”
“We’re at an Italian restaurant. Nothing on the menu is light.”
Frankie chuckles and agrees to order the gnocchi, too.
When the server leaves, I take the opportunity to scan the interior of the restaurant, curious to see if they have changed anything there. The bar is the same high-sheen wood with Formica tiles inside. A wood-burning oven still roars behind the bar where a pizza chef tosses doughs in the air.
“What are you smiling about?”
“How familiar this place is. How many great memories I had here.”
“I’m glad you can remember them fondly.”
“I do. I’m so glad we came, Frankie. I was hesitant at first, but I really needed this.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You know we should check out this bar later. It turns into a nightclub and plays the best music. My local friends and I tried to sneak in once, but we got kicked out. But every Saturday night the DJ would go live on the radio, and we would pretend we were there.”
“I like that. And maybe we can invite Theo to come with us.”
“Theo? Who is Theo?”
Frankie bites her lip, holding back a smirk.
