The Xi

In college, our favorite restaurant was a pizza place with a Greek name, housed in a basement across the street from campus. The place was dark and cozy, played loud music, and had an alcohol license. Many college students found their way into its belly for pizza heavily laced with cheese and garlic. Good pizza, good times.

The restaurant is still there, and is doing very well. In fact, they are doing well enough that they have opened a new branch a little further south. The ceilings in the new place are higher, and you don't make your way down a flight of concrete stairs to reach the entrance, but they have decorated the new restaurant with the same graffiti on dark brick, loud music, and garlic laced pizza.

We were passing through the neighborhood last weekend, and stopped by the newer Xi. As we entered the doors, we were momentarily transported back in time. Back to when we were college students. Free to find our own music. Write an opinion on the wall. Order root beer on tap. Watch football heavily laced with garlic. We ordered, took a seat, and took turns taking Jonathan to the bathroom. As I waited for the boys to return, I looked a little closer at my surroundings.

The table on my left was filled with a family of about six kids, sipping coke, adults doling out garlic bread, kids teasing the girl on the end. The table on my right was filled by about three different families, with a pile of kids under six all crammed against the wall, asking parents for refills of orange soft drink. The next table up looked like a family reunion, complete with spilled drink and wailing baby in a restaurant high chair.

All these families. All these kids. How did they end up at the Xi? Since when did all these kids fit into the cozy darkness? The graffitied walls? The restaurant for college students, rebels, and other free thinkers? Why the family night?

And it occurred to me. These aging parents had lost track of time. They were the same students who ate the pizza at the tables around me when I was in college. They had grown up. Settled down. Become responsible. And come back for some garlic laced pizza on a Saturday night without a babysitter.

Bemused, I watched the parents as they ran back and forth from the drink machine and tried to calm arguments over garlic bread. Did they ever stop to think about the incongruity of bringing their kids to the Xi? Or did they still see themselves as the same young people? The same rebels? With the same cravings for garlic and darkness and loud music?

My thoughts were cut off by the approach of my child with my husband. Our pizza was ready. Could Jonathan please have some water? And why, Daddy, did we have to sit down? Can't we watch at the kitchen longer? Did you wash your hands? Make sure you use your napkin. Will you cut this for me? What drink did you get? Careful not to spill!

Good pizza. Good times.