Valentine's Day With The Neanderthals

18 February 2023

Story #1091

R. Linda:

Well now . . . Valentine's Day! Whoo-hoo! It is supposed to be a day of romance—that's what the ladies tell me. To me, it's a day of spending big bucks on jewellery, candy, flowers, and dinner. Oh, and don't forget the champagne!

Every year, I take the wife to our favourite little bistro in the woods for a five-course luncheon. This is the highlight of her year, or so she tells me. Christmas, birthdays, and anniversaries don't carry the weight of Valentine's Day. No, indeed, not with me wife. 

I thought I was taking her out for an elegant lunch, at our favourite little place in the secluded woods where the food is always fabulous and the clientele be as classy as can be. 

As usual, I made the reservations and we were a few minutes late (we are 5 minutes away from the bistro and always run late). The receptionist told us she would take us to our table, the hostess was busy. When we got to the table, it wasn't ready. So much for being late, it didn't seem to matter. So we were ushered back to the reception area and within seconds the hostess appeared and said we could have our table, even if it wasn't ready, it was clean. The wife says under her breath to me, "It isn't like they weren't expecting us and this is the first seating of the day . . . so?"

I sighed and shook me head like it was terrible. Yes, it was, but I didn't care. As long as the food was coming, me tum would be happy and full. 

We were seated, and the only thing missing was the bread and butter plates, which were put down almost immediately. While we awaited our waitress to take our order I perused the room and at the table directly across from me, four teenaged lads, dressed like teenaged lads, you know the string and leather necklaces, bracelets, hoodies, ripped jeans, pimply faces, lots of hair, the whole lot. Everyone else was over the age of forty and dressed to the nines. Yes, my dear R. Linda, they stuck out like sore thumbs, and not only that, they were LOUD. How they managed to alight in this upscale bistro was a mystery.

They were served gourmet crackers with a lovely homemade port wine cheese spread. They slathered the spread on the crackers, which were shaped like butterflies, breaking the wings off as proof of their masculine strength. Crumbling wings were on the table, and they swept them off to the floor. They were not tidy folk, for sure. I chuckled and thought, if this be any start, I'll be ready to be entertained. 

Next came the soup, a lemon orzo number I didn't particularly like, but for the feta cheese chunks. The boyos also didn't like it as they voiced their opinions to each other, not meaning I am sure for the rest of the diners to hear their critique. I did notice two of the four picked up the bowls and drank the soup. The other two left their soup on the table untouched since it wasn't their "thing."

The home-baked bread came next with a lovely garlic butter spread. The bread was a savoury loaf of warmth and the butter melted into it. I was getting ready to shove a bit into my piehole when I noticed the small loaves being tossed at the teenage table. I tell ya!

Salad appeared and was tasty, or as the boyos loudly proclaimed, "SO GOOD!" That was until I looked over and saw a cucumber in hand being eaten like a potato chip and another with a hand in his salad bowl eating the lettuce that way without the aid of a salad fork; which was lying lonely at the side of his plate. I noticed the napkins were all balled up and lying on the table in a heap, so those were not used either.

Between the salad and the entree, we had some merry shoving and punching at the table, as fun was made of each other. I was watching this closely because a waitress had to pass by them rather closely carrying a loaded drink tray, and I was of the mind that it would be a matter of time before she and the liquid went flying. And by the way, they had six or seven refills of cold and hot teas offered with the luncheon.

The entree arrived and there was a choice of cottage pie or a veggie ragout linguine. The troop had all decided on the Angus braised beef cottage pie, which was our choice as well and very delicious. It was not what you get at home, this was a classy take with piped potatoes on top and a winter carrot for decoration. The beef was as tender as butter and the gravy was to die for. I was so busy enjoying me meal I didn't look over at the antics across the way. 

But I did on dessert. We were served a lovely bourbon pecan pie with whipped cream, berries, and a dollop of homemade vanilla bean ice cream. Before I had a bite, I saw the boyos eating the pie pizza style. No forks or spoons for them! Nah just good old Neanderthal-style eating. 

Well, they weren't finished yet. The price per person runs around $30.00, not including tax and tip. I paid and was waiting for the waitress to come back with my receipt when I glanced across the way and saw that each had his own bill. One said, "You should leave the trip." This was said to one of the others, who nodded and looked like he was adding on a tip. 

We were leaving when the tipster said, "$4.75 should do it." 

I took a double-take, and he was serious. This poor woman had waited on these cavemen more than any other table, and they had to have a bill between all of them of $120, and they were leaving her a tiny tip. We started out, and I whispered to Tonya in the hallway what I heard, and she said she heard it too. I was all for going back in and leaving a tip for the waitress, but the boyos were still at table with more drinks. Tonya didn't want me to embarrass them so we left for the next-door gift shop. We waited a while for them to come out because I had every intention of going back and tipping that poor hardworking woman. But they didn't come out. 

Tonya said maybe they were in the back doing the dishes. I sincerely hope so. This made me wonder what our three boyos might be like out in public alone. That night I watched them. The eldest knows to use a knife and fork, and the smaller one gets his meat cut up for him, but the middle son would have been right at home with the cavemen. He had a piece of roast beef he picked up on his fork without cutting it and tore into it. I looked at Ton, and she looked at me. We just chalked it up to the "age" of The New Age Neanderthals, yuppers, as the Weasil would say.

Gabe

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