Eating Out -- An Intimate Dinner Turns Circus-like

20 February 2011

Story #365

R. Linda:

Tonya's idea of an anniversary dinner is eating out in a small gourmet bistro, candlelight, soft music, a cosy atmosphere, few diners, that sort of thing. Well, I found a small place out in the sticks (isn't everything out here?) and set off for a night of romantic mood guaranteed to please the wife. We arrived at 6 p.m. on the dot and were immediately seated next to the fireplace, candle on the table, gleaming china, sparkling crystal, polished silver, everything perfect. There was one other couple, and they were in a dim corner, out of sight, out of mind, as they say.

I sighed, "Ah, this is nice, don't you think?" I asked the smiling wife.

"Certainly is my idea of an anniversary dinner," she said, looking around with a pleased expression. "Well done, sir!"

The waitress came and introduced herself as our server for the evening. She explained that we were having a seven-course meal and what would grace our palates. It was hard not to drool. I looked at the wine list and made a selection, and we were good.

We were holding hands across the table—yes, I know, barf, barf, barf—but well, it was such a romantic place until the man in the corner said, "Aw, look at the lovebirds."

Well, we both looked around and realised he was speaking about us! So we nervously laughed and let go and sat smoothing napkins in laps in embarrassment. Our waitress came over shortly after and poured our wine. Meanwhile, the man at the corner table said, "Ah, there's our little bird," meaning the waitress. She went over to see what he wanted, and he said, "This," pointing at the leavings on his plate, "was really stupendous. The next time I come here, I won't eat before because this stuff is great!"

The waitress made the appropriate noises of being pleased and taking the empty plates.

I looked at Mr. Loudness and saw one fat man. I know, I know, here we go on the fat thing again, but in this instance, there was no getting around it: The man liked his food. He turned to me and said, "Believe it or not, I had an egg salad sub before I came. Teach me to overeat, har, har, har."

I politely smiled with a chuckle. What was I to say, "I believe it!"

"Oh dear," Tonya whispered, looking down at her napkin and smoothing it again.

"Did you happen to notice the tree down by the road?" he asks, leaning toward us.

"Em, yes, I did."

"Good thing they cleaned THAT up, or we wouldn't be enjoying this scrumptious meal, har, har!"

"Yes, yes indeed," I muttered as he went into a blow-by-blow of last night's weather.

"Hey, my name is George, and this here is the little woman, Emily," and he stands up. Yes, R. Linda, he stood up and came over hand outstretched. What was I to do but rise from me chair, shake it and introduce me wife, who looked totally stunned, and then nod at Emily over in her corner (I noticed she was all of 4 feet tall and very slender and instantly, I thought I knew who ate all her food, poor dear). So I sat back down, and he continued to hover over our table; I was shocked and looked at him like, YES? What can I do for you? And he says to Tonya, "Must be a special occasion, you both all dressed up."

Okay, Tonya wore a pair of dress slacks and a sweater, which she wore with a necklace and earrings. I wore dress slacks from work and a jacket with a dress shirt (no tie). We looked nice, considering the occasion and the place. Suddenly, we both felt overdressed as I happened to notice Emily over there in jeans and a sweatshirt and big guy George had on too-tight khakis with a long-sleeved raggedy t-shirt that said 'You're Retarded'. Yup, politically correct, not. Tonya, who works with children, wasn't happy and had her hand to the side of her face, almost like she was shielding her eyes from the offensive script.

Our waitress came with their next course. THANK THE LORD FOR THAT! And big George went back to lap it up. We sat silently communicating with our eyes when our soup appeared, which put us into silent contemplation of egg salad subs because neither of us knew they existed, and it was all so odd, wasn't it? This was bizarre, but our lives had been taking that turn, if you have noticed. George yells to us, "Did you order the Duck in the orange juice? It's really good!"

"Orange sauce," Tonya muttered.

"No, we didn't. We ordered something different," I stupidly said, stepping into a conversation when a shake of the head might have done it. But I didn't think there was any stopping George from talking to us.

"Oh, so what's on the menu, neighbor?" he asked, picking food off his wife's plate—he did this the entire time we were there. I was amazed she didn't slap his hand. I think she had one mouthful the whole dinner!

Oi. I told him it was our anniversary and a surprise for me wife, so I couldn't say.

"OH, how many years?"

OH MY GOD. Me soup was cold, and I was being kicked under the table by me upset spouse as I carried on this insane conversation. I learned how many years George and Emily had been married, what a horror George's ex-wife had been, and how his favourite sport, ice fishing, occupies most of his time when (and this is me talking) he isn't shovelling food down into that bottomless gut of his.

As the cold soup was being replaced by a salad, another couple came in, and Tonya was ever so happy to see the woman dressed similarly to herself and the husband like me. So now, who was out of place? They were to sit near us, but the woman thought the fireplace would be too warm, so they were seated near George and Emily because it had a window view. They sat there as my wife whispered, "They'll be sorry." And R. Linda, I bet they were. George sprang into action, up he got, handshaking and introductions all around, including the us. He gestured, "That's Gabe and Tonya over there by the fireplace celebrating 6 wonderful years together, wave kids," says he. We did, looking foolish, and the woman looked at us apologetically. Then George sat down to his dessert but included the new couple in on his life story, which we had been regaled with earlier, so we could get some whispered conversation of our own in with each other.

The sorbet came and went, dinner came and went, and all through both, we had George talking to us as he and Em lingered over coffee, then to Betty and Hal at the next table, and then back to us. Yeah, we were all on a first-name basis, and Betty and Hal were as roped into being as polite as Tonya and I, so it was like a carnival. Even our waitress, Jeanette, was included. You could see the antsy attitude of poor Jeanette trying to serve three tables and being stopped each time she came into the room by George with a load of comments, questions, or observations. It was bloody awful.

Finally, poor haggard, stressed Jeanette comes to his table with a huge doggy bag. Yes, George ordered. Are you ready? The entire meal AGAIN for eating at 1 a.m., his fav chow time. When we heard this, the four of us were struck in the mid-fork to the mouth. I looked at Tonya, who caught Betty's glance and all around we went. WHAT? No doggy bag for little, skinny Em? No, she didn't look like she'd eaten a good meal in years, but Georgie was all set.

"Be setting the alarm, har, har, har. I won't really, always up at 1 a.m. Feeding time," he laughed and said their goodbyes, and once again, shaking hands that were in mid-dinner, he finally left.

The room deflated nicely after that, and the conversations between the remaining tables, Hal and Betty's and our own, were hushed. What we all had signed up for was a conversation with our significant other.

It was a dining experience we, and I be sure Betty and Hal, won't forget. One thing made us feel better: the poor put-upon Jeanette did come and apologise. Her parting words, "They're from Massachusetts," said it all. This surprised me. Manners like that are so New Jersey; she must have had that wrong.

Gabe
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