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Already Written Narrative Essays For A Restaurant

As a child, I was not fond of eating out. My family would eat at a restaurant, diner, or buffet at least once a week, often more than once. Every time we went anywhere, but for a little place called Rivenee’s, it was a challenge for my parents to find proper food and a nice atmosphere. Rivenee’s was that lucky exception—I loved the place and this made my parents love it too. The restaurant seemed magical and fascinating to me when I was an elementary school kid, and surprisingly, the place still fascinates me today. Recently, when I visited my old family house for Thanksgiving, I was astonished and pleased to find out the place still operated and, in fact, was still run by the same family. Apart from the house in which I grew up, Rivenee’s is probably the dearest place to me in the small town, just outside of San Ramon, where I was born and raised.

Rivenee’s is a small and cozy place, and this is what probably garnered my love of the restaurant initially. This, and the people who worked and still work there. Unlike more spacious restaurants, diners, and chain buffets my parents also took

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I learnt to appreciate life about six years ago in a restaurant where I had a habit of sitting and moaning to myself about how boring everything seemed to me. I reached up and clutched the top of my forehead, squeezing ever so slightly, wishing the constant, irritant pain could dissipate. I watched as the waiters tirelessly travelled laps from table to table in search of fresh orders and annoyingly small tips. The immense chatter provided by each customer and the occasional clatter of the cutlery, which presented an almost permanent ringing in my ears, did not aid me in my strong attempts to keep my agony at peace. A group of teenage boys, however seemed to be entirely glued to the windows, didn’t even notice the noise. They didn’t even…show more content…

My Parents on the other hand were too busy arguing, ‘You could’ve done it-‘
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I had no time! I just came back from work and-‘
‘And what? You can’t talk to Me about it?’
I think they had almost forgotten I had been sitting there, listening to their argument for 15 minutes; I don’t even think they noticed the drink I accidently spilt earlier and how I very lazily covered the evidence up with the restaurant branded napkin. I looked down at the table cloth, and then slowly closed my eyes. I imagined I had the ability of telepathy and tried to enter peoples mind, to make them realise the pain I was in and how silence would be crucial for me. Suddenly, everyone became quiet. The customers stopped talking, the boys ceased howling and most importantly my parents abruptly stopped their argument. I looked up in amazement, astonished that I was able to finally obtain some peace. However, everyone was staring at the entrance, shocked and frightened. I slowly turned to face the puzzling attraction. To my horror it was a masked man with a firearm.
I threw myself under the table cloth, watching the shaking pair of legs accompanying me. I held my knees close to my chest with my arms wrapped tightly around them, listening to the terrifying screams. I closed my eyes once again, this time going through the list of things I was unable to accomplish, wishing I could make through this and promising myself I would appreciate my life often. Just then I heard

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