I was in the dairy aisle at Shop-n-Save with my daughter and an elderly gentleman stopped me.
Him: "Excuse me young man. My 98-year-old eyes can't see the expiration date on this. Can you?"
Me: "Well, sure." And I read the date to him. "You're 98?"
Him: "Yes, I am."
Me: "Well, you look pretty good for 98!"
Him: "I mowed an acre of grass earlier today." (The temp that day was in the 90s.)
To prove his age, he got out his wallet and handed me his driver's license. Born in 1911. I saw the name -- Oldani.
Me: "Oldani. I think I went to high school with an Oldani."
Him: "I ran a restaurant here in St. Louis for 40 years."
Me: "Really? Called....?"
Him: "'Oldani's'" (with a look that suggested "you moron"). "We started toasted raviolis!"
Me: "Really?! You're the guy?!"
Him: "I'm the guy!" And he made the sign of the cross. It was official.
I turned to my daughter. "Hey, we love toasted raviolis, don't we?!"
We chatted for another minute or two and went our separate ways. Fifteen minutes or so later, we were walking out to our car and heard a car horn. We turned, and there was 98-year-old Mr. Oldani driving out of the parking lot, honking and waving at us.
So, when I got home, I consulted The Oracle. And if you believe everything you read on the interwebs (and I do), Oldani's is certainly a possible birthplace of the toasted ravioli.
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