Pasghetti fiction

In Tokyo, walk into any restaurant with an Italian menu out front and you're bound to get a plate of spaghetti. It's not that spaghetti is necessarily your favorite Neapolitan fare, but it's all too often that this is the only thing on offer here.
If you're lucky, the chef went to Rome on his honeymoon. Now his wife takes your order as you sit at the table along the wall with decorative plates hung on it depicting Mediterranean life that might have once been a happy reminder to the couple of their brief foray oh-so-many years ago, but which now look cloudy under the dust that has congealed with the cheap olive oil in the air.
You venture against all odds and scan the menu quickly looking for the katakana characters for penne or maybe even ma-ka-ro-ni-i, but to no avail. You push images of tortellini far from your mind and order tomato on su-pa-ge-tei it is, and the once hopeful fiance of a cuoco Italiano jots down the code for what she imagines is bolognese on her notepad.
The waitress used to be a bit playful and repeat the order to her husband saying "paa fo'vaa", and once in a while a customer would comment on how wonderful it was she spoke such beautiful Italian. She would insist that was really all she remembered now even though she was able to ask for directions when she was in Rome.
The spaghetti comes in a bowl with a fork wrapped in a thin napkin remenicent of a cafeteria. There's a dented green canister Kraft parmesan cheese on the table that could be easily mistaken for Comet if it were under the kitchen sink and you shake out as much as you can before the waitress flashes you the evil eye. You think to remind her you had also requested a glass of water but think better of it. You hope she'll get bored and bring it later.
Another patron is a few tables away eating the 'spaghetti calbonara' while he reads about Dice-K's pitching record in the sports section. You notice his ice water is sitting in a puddle next to the cheese on his table.
You finish the last bit of pasta in your bowl, politely decline the house blend "after-you-eat" cup of coffee and get up to pay the check. The chef is the one to shuffle over to the register and he rings up the bill, giving you your 300 yen in change. There is still a sense of pride in the man's eyes. You thank him and he thanks you. Moments later, the door closes behind you and you walk over to the vending machine outside and get a cold sports drink.