Parked under the sign marked “La Gruta,” I see no buildings. A well-dressed man approaches, looks in at me for some time until I realize he must be the valet. Rather than speed away, I fumble awkwardly with the door handle and finally spill out of the vehicle. His countenance remains amazingly even. I hesitate, naïve regarding the timing and amount of his payment. Fortunately, this difficulty is averted as he tips his cap to me—truly!—and expertly moves into the driver’s seat. How foolish this consummate professional appears piloting my meager transportation!

I am whisked away by another kindly gentleman to descend a stone stairway. It becomes clear that the establishment’s name is no metaphor—that I am, in fact, entering a cave! Stalactites nose in on conversations, but the elegant dining atmosphere provided by the decor suits these natural surroundings. I champion my decision to wear formal attire as the greeter charmingly escorts me to my table. Waving aside his offer to remove my sportcoat, I ask for a glass of their best scotch—honestly! Sure, on the rocks. This odd environment causes me to act so impetuously!

The patrons are dressed quite finely. Now my old-fashioned outfit seems foolish. How unseemly—my best ensemble, inadequate for a cave! No matter—here is the waiter with my scotch. He is cordial and obedient like the others. I practically offer him my seat—tell him I will fetch the soup. He responds wittily, of course—tells me the music springs from several canaries dwelling there. Birdsong accompanying dinner—they have thought of everything!

Waiting for my food, I question being placed at this conspicuously large table. Isn’t my regret at not having any company enough? Must they seat me centrally for emphasis? Perhaps I’ll move to the bar—the waiter will find me. I stand only to hang my sportcoat on my chair and sit down again. I am sweating. Musicians serenade an elderly couple nearby.

The soup is scrumptious—the chicken even better. A thickly mustachioed magician in a slick tuxedo produces a canary before my eyes, probably from his sleeve. At the next table, he lights a candle with his mind while his canary perches on my water glass, singing. I look around helplessly as his friends arrive. Eleven canaries watch me finish the cheesecake. People are rolling in the aisles—pointing, laughing, crying. “They love him!” they shout. I pay my bill and rush to the restroom. Returning, I am relieved to see my table empty. I toss on my sportcoat and exit via the stone steps. The valet already has my car. I reach for coins, but my pockets are filled with canaries, their little heads poking out. Another roar from below. The valet accepts each bird as I dig for money. It’s no use—there are only seeds and more canaries. I dash off and become smaller and smaller until I am no more than a speck of dust on your page.