Son Adam recently told me that if I’m going to be a Senior Influencer, I should influence seniors in some way.  He suggested I include reviews of places seniors go or should go.  And so I will do that, mostly in Dallas, but also when I travel.

For several years now I have gone to dinner with three friends from our Tapestry group on Monday nights. This little group sprung from the notion that we all live alone and therefore may go days on end without seeing or eating with anyone.  Three of us are members of The Worst Club Ever and one is a long-time-ago divorcee (do people use that term anymore?  It conjures up sheath dresses, boozy cocktails and a long cigarette holder—so sort of Mad Men and nothing like Melinda.)

It is this little group that I christened The Widow Women (Melinda adds a +1, but I’m not a stickler for the truth), and it is there from which the name of this blog sprung.  (That is perhaps the most awkward sentence I have ever written, but whatever.) 

The deal is that we take turns choosing a restaurant and we go there, no questions asked. Recently Anne chose Campisi’s because it is laden with memories of her husband and children. Campisi’s holds that kind of nostalgia for most Dallasites who went there during their dating years. Not me, however, as I had boyfriends with no money (the notion that I would pay never crossed my mind—duh.) And I had never been there until Scott and I got married.

Frankly I don’t get it. 

I was there a year or so ago and another friend was regaling us with stories of the owners’ “Italian family” connections and all the people who used to eat there, probably right before they mysteriously disappeared. 

Maybe when you’re dating, you want the romantic darkness, the personal jukebox and sexy red candles. Or when you’re talking to Frankie the Goat about taking Three-Fingers Eddie on a special “ride,” the shadowy back booth is where you want to be. 

But not for The Widow Women. 

We have to help each other from the parking lot into the restaurant in full daylight.  So when we walked into the cool blackness of Campisi’s, it took a minute for my eyes to adjust.   Then I realized it wasn’t going to get any better. The place is as dark as a cave. The hostess asked us if we wanted a table or a booth. 

Ah, the conundrum:    The table has the advantage of being on the ground, with a chair for each of us.  It boasts a single red candle and no overhead light.   The booth steps up onto a platform (God knows why) and by virtue of being a booth, means that Anne (who is tiny) will not be able to see past the rim of her plate.  On the bright side (relatively speaking) there is a low-level overhead light.

We chose the booth because of the light.  This was a mistake.

We hiked ourselves into the booth and scooted to the wall. No small feat for an 89-year-old, an 80-year-old, a 75-year-old, and me, the baby at 71. Then we discovered that due to the personal jukebox, we lost 8 inches of table, and we scooted back the other way, cramming together on each side hip to jowl.

The good news was that ample space was created for our purses.  

Next came the ordering of the wine (we prefer not to have to bring our own, but we will, by golly), the reading of the menu, phone lights on, holding menus on high under the one jaundiced bulb.  Finally, we just gave up and ordered whatever seemed familiar.

The food was good.  Standard Italian fare, nothing fancy or modern.  The salad was simple iceberg lettuce with parmesan and a sweet vinaigrette (reminded me of Babe’s.)  Pizza for Betty, shrimp scampi for Melinda, spaghetti and giant meatballs for me, and tiny Anne got the mammoth sampler platter.  We elbowed each other until we had eaten our fill and asked for to-go boxes.  We had to take turns filling the boxes since there was no table space left for that kind of nonsense.

There are three hallmarks of older women eating out. We go early in the evening (5:30) so we can get a place without waiting and, also, it will be quieter. Bonus points if we make it before Happy Hour is over.  We want the portions to be big enough to take home half to enjoy the next day.  And we require separate checks. This keeps things easy and uncomplicated (for us if not for the waitstaff), although lately we sometimes have to help each other figure a tip or read the stupid thing in a dark restaurant.

We did visit Campisi’s again recently and we chose a table that was positioned dangerously close to an overhead light.  We still had to use our phone lights, but the whole experience was better.

My new rating system uses stars 1-5 with 5 being best. And it includes criteria that most restaurant critics are not taking note of.   But heck, as your Senior Influencer, I have to speak to our special needs.

CAMPISI’S EGYPTIAN (I have never understood the Egyptian part)

Food:  ****  The food is predictable and tasty, with nice-sized portions. 

Ambience:  *  Who knows what it looks like?  

Noise:  *****  High marks because it’s quiet enough for conversation (maybe dates and mafia eat later.)  We often ask restaurants to turn down music.  Yes, we are those women.

Lighting:  *  One star because we were not plunged into total darkness like that restaurant in New York.

Bathrooms:  **** Big enough, clean and fully stocked.  Five stars if they play appropriate music.

Location:  ***  Campisi’s is on Mockingbird Lane and requires navigating a high-traffic area during rush hour.

Parking:   ****   There is a convenient and large parking lot, but we had to traverse sloping and rough sidewalks, with a lot of hand-holding to get to the restaurant itself.

OVERALL RATING:  *****  (I know it’s really a three, but I don’t want to get a visit from Frankie the Goat.)