We were going to Strokos, really, we were. We were agreed on it. We were walking there.

Then came the suggestion, the one you never think you’re going to hear: “Hey. Let’s go to Camille’s!” There was a moment of silence, either out of confusion or fear, possibly both. “Don’t we have to be in the mafia or something to go there?” “Is it even open?” “Uhhhhhhhhhh.”

But we couldn’t come up with a real reason why not. Camille’s is a place so mysterious that no one really knows enough about it to argue for or against it. We had nothing to say—it was going to happen. We were going to go where most Columbians never go. We were going to cross Amsterdam and descend into Camille’s.  I didn’t know what would happen, but I was ready for anything. This was going to be odd. This was going to be very, very odd.

To my great surprise, there were actually two men sitting in the dining area, and they didn’t even slightly resemble Sopranos-esque mobsters. They looked…normal? The waitress strolled out from behind the bar and handed us menus and seated us. So far, there was nothing anything out of the ordinary restaurant-wise. This only made me more skeptical.

“Ah!” Glancing at the menu, I finally found the first oddity: the offering of quesadillas amid an otherwise basic Italian menu. But my satisfaction in strangeness was fleeting, since it wasn’t really that notable. Pasta and quesadillas? The likes of T.G.I.Fridays has been doing that for years.

We all ordered pasta. We all ate not-horrendous salads. We all were decently satisfied with our dishes. How could this be? And how could it be so cheap? Could this outing to Camille’s really be, dare I say it, normal? Pleasant? I think so. I’m still not entirely sure. It was all a little too strange in its normalcy.

But I’m not convinced. If I go again, I’m checking behind the toilet for a handgun, à la The Godfather. Hell, I may go again to do just that. This can’t be the whole story.

No. Seriously. runs on Thursdays.