This essay is a good illustration of the danger of mind-reading. For example, if someone sits staring at a menu for a long time, especially right after arriving at a dinner already in progress, it is not necessarily because she is frozen with fear by the blazing sophistication of the menu. It might be because she has total indecision meltdown when confronted by so many delicious possibilities. Believe me, Nancy, waitresses frequently smile patronizingly at me and say, “Maybe I’ll just come back.” My inability to make up my mind at a restaurant is the despair of my friends.
But do you usually expect someone to know exactly what she wants from a quirky drink menu within seconds of sitting down?
And when someone asks “how does this work?” she might be referring to the demands of this particular meal: are we ordering our own or splitting the tab? wine too? what’s been ordered so far? are we to expect an entree as well? It is reasonable to want to know these things, and they don’t deserve a patronizing response.
“What’s ‘potatoes bravas’?” she asked. I told her, probably something with potatoes.
Scintillating. That, my friends, is what a real Foodie sounds like. You’re wondering what the Chowhound forums are like, they sound like that.
The steak arrived as fat slices of rib eye, a cut I adore. Hogwart and Rumple began poking at it with their knives, one pinning it in place while the other pulled away the lovely rim of fat and plopped it on the tablecloth.
I remember that steak, it was wonderful, and I think I scooped up my friend’s rim of fat. I must confess I wasn’t watching your dextrous way with cutlery, so how did you carve a small thick cut of meat on a tiny plate, with no poking allowed?
On second thought, I must not be Rumple after all, because I love beets and olives and I did have the sardines and I know what paella is. Perhaps what I really said was “how’s the paella?” The restaurant was noisy after all.
I am beginning to think these characters (except for my vegan beer-drinking friend) are composites, drawn from three unpleasant dinners at a great restaurant. It’s a lovely piece of fiction – MFK Fisher must be shivering with awe in her grave.
