Things I Don’t Do at Restaurants

Nancy and I went out to dinner tonight.  We knew that it would be just us, and though I was hoping for something outrageous to happen, something slice worthy, I was pretty sure that it wouldn’t.  That got me to thinking about what I don’t do at restaurants.

I don’t send food back.  I’m not good at making conversation with waiters and waitresses. I don’t ask for special preparations or portions left on the side.

And I don’t usually wear my dessert.

I realize that begs a little explanation.  Here’s the story.    One of our best friends from college has a parent who loves to engage a waiter in banter.  He loves to ask questions about how things are prepared (“Is the cole slaw made here?”), and he loves to spread desserts on his forehead.

On Nancy’s graduation weekend, she went to dinner with our friend, Sarah and her family.  This included Sarah’s father.  I’ll call him Sandy….because that’s his name.  He doesn’t need his identity protected.  I missed this outing.  I’ve been hearing about it for the last 35 years.  I believe Sandy may still be in touch with the waiter he befriended that night.  I believe some spoons were hung from noses, as well.  In the decades  between that memorable missed dinner and today, I have experienced several meals with Sandy.   Here’s a moment from a dinner in Bay View, Michigan.

We sit at a table for five on the porch of a beautiful old inn.  It’s fancy, but not too pretentious.  We’ve finished our main course.  I had a cedar plank salmon, I believe.  We’d had a few glasses of wine as well, but this hadn’t led me to do anything outrageous, and, I’m happy to say that I hadn’t spilled anything either.  Our conversation is spirited, but not overly loud.  Sandy has befriended the waitress.  He’s asked for her recommendations, her favorite flavors of ice cream, what she thinks of the chef, what she thinks of the other waiters, her biggest regrets,  the name of her current boyfriend, whether she has any unusual tattoos.  You know, the usual.

Now it’s time for dessert.  I order creme brulee, which Nancy will claim she dislikes and then sample liberally.  Naturally, we insist that Sandy try the chocolate mousse.  When the desserts come, we continue our conversation.   We talk of Petoskey stones we found on the beach and we rave about the charming Victorian cottages that grace the green.  Somewhere amid the banter, Sandy loses his sense of aim.  I do not see it happen, but I look up from my brulee to see that he has mousse on his spectacles.   It’s just a little swipe.  Sandy show no concern.

No one else reacts.  Stifling a laugh, I continue to crack into the crust of my brulee.  When I look up again, a dollop  dangles from Sandy’s nose.  Again, he seems perfectly content to carry on his side of the conversation.  I look across at Sarah.  Her lips curl slightly at the corners. She continued the conversation, unfazed.  I glance back and actually catch Sandy swiping the back of his spoon across his cheek.  This is done in the matter-of-fact style of a person patting his lips with a napkin.  Soon enough, there is pudding pocking the man’s entire face, as though he’s withstood a blender catastrophe.

Of course, we’ve all seen this act before.  I mean who hasn’t experienced a grown man spreading mousse across his face at a fancy restaurant?

Seriously, though, when Sandy had been the guest at our house, ten years before, we’d been encouraged to serve pudding for dessert.  “My dad loves pudding,” Sarah had said. That evening, his lack of spoon dexterity had horrified our very proper eight-year-old.  What was happening?  Sandy had spoken to her in the most natural of adult voices, asking her about he day at school or her favorite Little House book.  All the while, his spoon continued to miss his mouth, landing dollops of chocolate and whipped cream across his cheeks, chin, and forehead.

Back in Bay View, now, we have a sense of how this will roll.  Sandy, with an uncannily straight face asks us about our plans for the next morning.  I am losing  control.  First a snort erupts, followed by a chuckle, and soon an all-out guffaw.  I’m praying the bladder holds.  Then. looking over at Nancy, I see tears running down her cheeks.  Our friend, who should have been showing more concern for her feeding-disabled father, finally succumbs to the spasms of shoulder shaking that have gripped all of us.  All except Sandy, who wears, in addition to the smooth, rich chocolate, an expressionless face.  He calls over the waitress and calmly asks if he might have another glass of the pinot noir.  She stands frozen in front of him, glancing at each of us in turn, the giggling, the howling, and the poker-faced.  Sandy tilts his head slightly, probably to see past the smear on his glasses, and looks at her quizzically.  “Is there anything wrong, Amanda?  Your mouth is sort of droopy.”

“No, Sandy, I’ll be right out with the wine.”  Then turning with an imploring look,  she begs “Would any of you like anything more?”  Her expression says, “Could one of you explain what the hell is going on.”

“No, we’re good,” I say.

“Actually,” says Sandy, “Do you think you could bring me some lens paper, Amanda?  I feel like I have a smudge on my glasses.”

“I think I can find some, Sandy, and maybe a towel.  You seem to be wearing a lot of your dessert.”

I haven’t been in touch with Amanda in the five years since this dinner.  I’ll have to ask Sandy if she’s recovered.

 

Note:  In two months, I’ll be going out to graduation dinner with my daughter and who knows who else, but I’m fairly certain no one will be talking about me 35 years later.

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