I have already committed the cardinal sin of blogging, which is to say, I’ve told a lot of friends and family about my blog. If you have not started blogging yet (you know you want to), or if you are a blogger who is debating whether or not to reveal your blog to people you know and love, DON’T DO IT. There are many reasons not to do so, but first and foremost is that having those close to you reading your blog dramatically decreases the number of stories you can tell and the ways in which you can tell them. The following is told with reluctant permission from one, and enthusiastic encouragement from others.
Saturday night, we went to Roy’s, to celebrate the 75th birthdays of both Nana and Pop Pop (Jif’s parents). I had never been to Roy’s before. Jif and I don’t get out much anymore, and when Shiraz McConaughey, Jif’s little sis, suggested we take the parents there for their birthdays, I was thinking, “Roy Rogers?! We can do better than that . . .” Like I say, I don’t get out much. We were seated at a table for 10, with Nana at one end, beside me, and Pop Pop at the other end. At Nana’s other side, across from me, sat Shiraz. Next to Shiraz sat her handsome husband, “Spritz.” (That wasn’t his name until Jif christened him that during the drive home . . . you’ll see why . . . ) And across from Spritz, beside me, sat my love, Jif. Our end of the table was having a high old time, and I expect the other end was, as well. We enjoyed calamari, wine, Maui Wowie salads, wine, sashimi, macadamia-encrusted Mahi Mahi, wine, and finally, for dessert, WINE. No, just kidding. For dessert, those at our end of the table enjoyed Roy’s famous chocolate souffle. This is like a tiny, personal chocolate cake, that is still liquid batter in the middle. HOT batter.
As Spritz took his first too-big bite of this heavenly confection, and attempted to swallow, the hot batter burned his tonsillicular area so badly that he coughed/spit/spritzed the big chocolate bite right out of his mouth and across the freakin’ table right into Jif’s face. His forehead region, to be exact. So that Jif had chunks o’ chocolate from eyebrows to slightly recessed hairline. Imagine if you were standing by a large mud puddle when a Humvee rolled through it, splattering wet, brown globs onto your face. I swabbed Jif up with my napkin while Spritz tried to explain his shocking behavior, something about, “It was HOT!“
Jif, being a glass-half-full kind of guy, allowed, “Well, Spritz, if you had to spit something in my face, at least it was something tasty.”
Spritz, also an optimistic kind of guy, quickly grabbed the olive branch that Jif extended, agreeing, “Yea, it’s not like I spit raw tuna at you.” And the two brothers-in-law shook hands across the table. Ah, sweet reconciliation. However, although chocolate was wiped (from forehead, then later from eyeglasses, and eyelids, and cheeks), and hands were shaken, Spritz knew that in this family, as in many others, once you act like a hyena, intentionally or otherwise, stories will be told. Forever. And they might even be embellished. And now, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, even blogged.
As entertaining as the flying choco-bits were, they jogged Shiraz’s memory of an even better “Spritz goes out to eat” story. This was some 10 years ago. Shiraz and Spritz had just become engaged, and Jif and I had just learned that we were expecting LG. A lot to celebrate, so Jif and I invited Shiraz and Spritz out to a lovely, elegant old inn on the Chesapeake Bay. Spritz, then in his early 20s and not yet the world-class salesman, executive type that he is today, was a little less than sophisticated when it came to ordering haute cuisine. I think Jif and I must have been somewhat impressed, maybe even a little intimidated when the young, newly betrothed Spritz ordered the Salmon Mousse.
We were toasting, talking, laughing, just generally having a delightful evening, when the waitress came to deliver our culinary delights. We three oohed and ahhed at the plates placed before us. But not Spritz. He politely but assertively called the waitress back to the table.
“This is not what I ordered,” he informed her.
She flipped open her chic leatherette pad. “I have the ‘Salmon Mousse’ for you, sir,” she said with professionalism.
OK, this is where the dialogue gets a little fuzzy for me, because it’s been ten years and dozens of Spritz stories, and lots of laughter and a bit of wine. But here’s what went wrong:
Spritz was waiting for a Surf and Turf sort of entree. He wanted some salmon. And he wanted some moose. With big ol’ antlers. The boy wanted a piece of fish and a Bullwinkle steak!
Shiraz said Spritz was dejected for days after that incident. “I was really looking forward to trying that moose. I never had moose before . . . “
You know I love you, Spritz
Do you have an embarrassing restaurant story? OR, would you like to take Spritz out to eat?