Common elegance
Guys are always being accused of not asking questions. Or at least not enough of them. Remember this recurring nightmare?
The infamous not asking for directions when on the road, heading to a place you’ve never been before. No map, no stopping at a gas station to ask for help. But eventually, you will be stopping at a station — for more gas. You run out, because you spend so much time going in circles. And when the inevitable nagging starts, you explain that you want to take the long, slow way. For the scenery.
Your female half occasionally scolds you that “you never take me anywhere!” So, you grit your teeth and offer to take her out to eat. “And no greasy spoon. I want a nice restaurant.”
Well, there goes your beer and pool money.
But do it, you must, or you will pay for it for a long time to come. And you have to wear a tie, she insists. Since you really don’t wear ties, you’ll have to dish out even more funds to buy a nice one. By this time, your mouth is parted in a frozen scream of despair. Okay, so you get the tie, put it on, and ask her if that works.
“Are you really going to wear those shoes?” she then asks.
She huffs, crosses her arms and heads to the door with her purse. You feel your teeth begin to crack as you bite down hard, wondering if she’s secretly thinking whether you have on clean socks and your feet are clean. Like you’re going to eat with your toes.
Suddenly, she turns around to glare at you and to make sure you’re behind her. A demon seed in wedgies.
You drive in silence, she remaining quiet as well. You’re reading her mind. Gee, aren’t you going to look at a map?
The valet comes out to open the door for her and to park your car. The guy in uniform, the building gorgeous, and you have an old jalopy with two different size tires and no hubcaps.
The name of the restaurant is some French name with an apostrophe and impossible to pronounce. Another guy in uniform opens the front door for you and her and directs you to follow him to your table. He pulls out the chair for her and hands you a menu, not her.
“The gentleman would like to order for his lady?”
The pit of doomsday opens wider for you, as you know that whatever you order for her is not going to be liked. Besides, the menu is in French. But you don’t dare ask for any translations. You nervously smile, as does she, and begin to order by pointing at items. The waiter bows, says “very good, sir,” and leaves to place your order.
You swear you hear him snickering as he walks away. Nah, couldn’t be. Not at these prices. The two of you are sitting there like a couple on a first date, smiling and looking around the room, trying to convey the appearance of two people who don’t currently hate each other’s guts.
Your elegant food trays with sparkling lids finally arrive for what seems like an eternity. But it smells good. The waiter is smugly grinning as he opens your tray, then hers. Her eyebrows are arched so high, you are sure they are going to leap off her forehead and take off in flight.
Both trays are filled with food topped with some sort of goopy sauce. Namely, French fries with white gravy.
“Something wrong, sir?” But you have to admit, she gets her French cuisine, and you get your fast food. All for just $39. Plus tip.