I love dining out. I take great pride in wallowing in gastronomic bliss every time I venture from the confines of my own kitchen to sample what the world has to give. I have an eighth sense about these things. I scan the entrée titles. Each word is allowed to dance upon my tongue. I imagine its taste and texture. I swallow and test the weight in my gullet to see if it will sate the current yearnings that abide there. Seldom, do I ever have to read the more detailed description that underlies the culinary offerings of my host.
I have rarely been disappointed. Alas, my Beloved does not share this gift and must grapple in the darkness hoping that she will actually stumble upon satisfaction.
My son won a radio pass for two to the picture show. With the lucky lad and his sister safely ensconced in the aisles of the nearest theatre, Mom and Dad were free to partake in a leisurely dining out experience. I was thrilled. We chose a Thai restaurant on the edge of town and were escorted to a cozy corner table. Everything was looking fine. The ambiance was perfect. The lighting was soft and friendly. I was relaxed. Yes, once more I was on the brink of dining victory.
The first sign of trouble was when the menus came. The food titles were incomprehensible. Frustrated at first, I pushed on. I will just have to work harder. The descriptions were in English and took a little longer to unravel but I would persevere. After temporarily choosing #50, I opted for #51 with a three chili pepper rating. The fact that I was ordering by a number was an ignored harbinger of dining doom.
The meals came and I began to indulge myself in what I do best. However, after a few bites, a malignant thought crept into my mind. Do I have the right meal? The dinner I was consuming was delicious. My dear wife’s meal looked incredibly delicious. I was becoming distracted. There was no chili heat being generated in my mouth. I inquired of my beloved. “Is yours at all hot” I asked. “Not at all” was her reply.
Each bite unraveled me more as I stared longingly at the plate across from me. The plump prawns were sitting invitingly atop glistening bell peppers and saucy bundles of broccoli and cauliflower.
I tried vainly to focus on my own meal but every few seconds the obsession with my companion’s food would slip to the forefront. Didn’t my order have broccoli? I don’t think my order had noodles!! My head was swimming in a fog, my fare was all but consumed and I had not experienced it!!
As my wife savours her last bite she innocently declares “Hmmm – my meal was a little hot.” The bitter small man in me squeals in horror. When this travesty is revealed to the waitress she half apologies and three quarters laughs. We return home and the rebukes of my repetitive protests finally quell me into brooding silence. The pain still lingers but is being eased by the knowledge that I helped my beloved choose a superior dining memory.
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2 comments:
The food was good though right?
You are very funny, my friend. Love your musing and sense of humor. Glad that your lovely wife directed me to your Blog - an enjoyable diversion from my work.
This entry reminded me of our meal together back in 1984 or 85. Three of us went for Chinese food. Back then restaurants didn't have little peppers next to menu items to show how spicy they would be.
We ordered a dish with fried meat, vegees and some little black shriveled up things. Without question and smugness, you devoured at least 3 of these little black things in one go. I thought my food would come out of my nose, it was so funny watching you go red, coughed, and otherwise puked without actually puking. You were polite enough to swallow them. Lots of water doused that fire in your mouth.
Do you remember this episode?
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