“I don’t think I can make it,” one said to the other, clinging onto a pole for support, “Without a reservation, this is hopeless.”
“We must keep trying!” The other replied, so stomachs churning, minds reeling from hunger, the Palateers continued their search.
And then, rising out of the misty sky like a vision, they saw it: the neon horizontal sign, the bold, welcoming letters. Hope for dinner that night.
Wagamama, the Nascar track of restaurants in Boston.
They stumbled inside, clutching their stomachs, and begged for a seat. Without delay, they were rushed to the center of one of the over-extended picnic tables, squished between a large, outgoing family and a quiet soloist, stirring his noodles as he pondered a novel.
They ordered in record time. The order numbers scribbled rapidly on their place mats with the wait staff’s sincere promise that as meals are made, they would be delivered on the spot. One Palateer nearly fell over backwards without a back to the chair, but was propped up by a speedy waiter.
The food began to arrive from the open kitchen, one plate after another: steaming bowls of noodles and rice, crisp, fresh salads with sweet potatoes and zucchini, freshly stir-fried vegetables and chicken in a sweet, red sauce.
The Palateers delighted, and their bellies full, they were able to continue their journey.

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