Sean S.

I knew I needed to eat something light before I went to the gym in a few hours because I'd be there for awhile. I surveyed Lincoln Drive for just the right thing. I was looking for a place to just get chips, salsa, guacamole and Perrier and people watch. Then I happened past Regina Margherita where a waiter was putting down two bowls of orange colored loveliness and I thought SOUP! Perfecto. So I hustled up to the outdoor hostess who I asked, perhaps clumsily "those gentleman, are they eating soup?" "What?" she asked in a very thick accent but with a bright smile ear to ear. "Soup?" Are they eating soup?" She looks over, you lika da salad? I start asking the question in basic Spanish but duh, she is Italian and not budging an inch. Fine, I ask for a menu, I see the special offers a patate of pureed potato and carrots dressed with crotons. This appears to be what they are eating. I ask for a table. Because it is only 515, I get a choice of a table. Actually, maybe it's the reputation of the restaurant. The English challenged perky hostess leaves me with a menu. I say can I have a sparkling water. She says "straightaway" and leaves. A few minutes later with no water in sight a very tan and coiffed "must be a 'mo" server brings me bread and a glass no water. "Can I get a glass of sparkling water?" Yes, sure and he heads inside. About 4-6 minutes later, a gentleman not dressed as a waiter but wearing stylish denim clam diggers and serving the table that hosted the original soup comes over to ask what I want, I say a Sparking water and some of that soup. Yes he says and bounds into the kitchen. Then out of nowhere a bespectacled man with a tie introduces himself as my waiter and asks "Would you like to start off with a drink?" "Well, I have ordered a sparkling water 4 times now and I know that I'd like your soup special and that is all I will be having, thank you." Off he goes and back comes another tan but lighter haired server with my Pellegrino and then pretends to light the candle on my table. I say pretends because he picks it up, flickers the lighter about it, it never catches, he puts it down, puts the glass back around it and walks away. All this waiting allows me to listen to the boisterous conversation of the 4 large queens sitting at the table that caught my eye. And actually only three are "bigger boned" One is not and you can tell that man he is doing everything he can not to be one of them. They order creamy soup, he orders salad, they order pasta he orders fish, they are dressed like lumberjacks or worse and he is all big, dark sunglasses with heavy rims, dolce & gabban jeans wearing and running to the high end tee shirt and baseball cap shops in between courses wondering how did I end up with such a punk rock looking boyfriend with such loser friends. Im thinking all this while ...where the hell is my soup? it is now 6 pm. Um, yoga is at 8 people! My waiter reappears, I give him that stare, you know that stare that says "Hey look there are only 6 tables of 24 occupied, 5 waiters/servers plus a hostess and I still don't have my soup" look. Well he got the look and swooshed into the kitchen and came back with what I must say was as wonderful soup as it elegantly looked. A generous, deep bowl offering at least 16 ounces of bright orange thick soup with olive oil generously drizzled into it and a joyful handful of croutons resting in the center with parsley chopped finely throughout. Each spoonful was a delight. It allowed me to watch as the thin, stylish gay grabbed his punky thick boyfriend far in the other direction from the other two and watch other tables fill up putting all the servers and the hostess to a bit more elevated a footing. The service was clearly not the best but the soup sure was tasty, when it finally arrived.