"Surrender monkeys!", howled Mr. Scoop. "I demand you gift me with your finest bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon!" He was on top of the table, arms flailing as he gestured toward a frightened bus boy. "You. Froggie. Bring me little cakes. And the house whore in charge of foot massage! Toute de suite!"
I looked up at him on the table. "Please come down dear...", I implored him.
He grinned down manaically at me. "I will have my little cakes. And this time they will be chocolate or...else..." He trailed off, staring out into the distance. He met his own eyes in the wall length mirror that hung above the banquettes. A steely resolve seemed to fill him as he swooped down onto the table and seized the remains of a bottle of Bordeaux. "This is for all my dead homeys!" he proclaimed to the rest of the restaurant as he poured the contents out onto the floor.
That's when security tackled him.
It was then that I realized that this was going to have to go on my debit card.
Mr. Scoop and I are very fortunate as couples go. We generally share the same interests. By interests, I mean whiskey. Generally. However, times have arisen when one of us wants to participate in an activity in which the other party may be somewhat less interested. But, as we are supportive of each other's interests, we'll give the activity a go.
That's how Mr. Scoop found himself in the upscale dining establishment, Aujourd'hui.
Aujourd'hui is located in the Boston Four Seasons Hotel. It's the kind of place that has linen table cloths, fine china and caviar on the menu. Very French. Sommeliers and head waiters abound. Exactly the kind of place Mr. Scoop wouldn't even think about eating at. Not specifically because of the pretention factor, but because it's just easier to get drunk and order pizza from the comfort of his couch. And, as nice as Aujourd'hui is, it doesn't have a high def big screen tv, 7.1 Dolby surround sound and an XBox 360 with thousands of zombies just waiting to be dealt some harshness.
However, since I asked, he said he'd go with me. Because he loves me. Despite the fact that he was going to have to wear a suit and tie, something he swore he'd never do again after he left the insurance industry for IT.
Fortunately, Mr. Scoop cleans up nice.
I should've realized that the evening was going to go wrong when we arrived to the restaurant and the maitre d' greeted Mr. Scoop as "Mr. (*my last name*)". I'd made the reservations, after all, and most people think we're married anyway. However, it threw Mr. Scoop. He was now defensively on edge, unsure as to whether he should correct the maitre d' or quietly allow him to seat us. We were quietly seated.
As we began to peruse the wine list, trying to find a wine that had only been marked up 400%, a waiter approached the table with two pieces of eggplant roulade, each about the size of a quarter. "The chef would like to offer you an amuse bouche.. before you begin your meal", he said as he offered forth the tiny mouthfuls of eggplant. "Did he just call me a douche?", Mr. Scoop asked me. "No, dear", I said as I took the eggplant from the waiter with what I hoped would be a big enough smile to distract him from Mr. Scoop's question. "These are just little appetizers. Try one."
The sommelier pounced on us just as we were swallowing. "Can I offer you anything to drink?" We hadn't even thought that far ahead yet. I asked for a glass of single malt while I contemplated the menu. Mr. Scoop, wanting desperately to order a beer but fairly certain that this wasn't "that" kind of place, blurted out, "Merlot" hoping that the speed with which he answered would cover his growing discomfort.
When the waiter returned to take our order, we both decided on tasting menus. It seemed to be a more economical way to try a variety of dishes. Since we had booked a fairly late seating, we were beginning to get ravenously hungry and were pleased when the dishes finally began to arrive. My meal began with a creamy soup that the waiter personally poured tableside over tiny diced vegetables garnishing the bottom of the shallow bowl. Mr. Scoop's meal began with two plump, glistening raw oysters served in their shells and annointed with spoonfuls of caviar. We hungrily tucked in to our first courses. So intent was I at filling the hole in my stomach with my soup that I did not notice that Mr. Scoop, puzzled that his course should be so tiny, was investigating the white substance the oyster shells were seated on - believing it to be rice. His gagging shocked me out of my soup reverie. He had just eaten a large spoonful of what turned out to be rock salt. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to spit it out into his napkin but it, again, not being "that" kind of place he forced himself to swallow the mouthful. He followed that with a large swallow of merlot. "The bastards are trying to kill me!" he exclaimed. "No they're not, dear. Why on earth did you eat that salt?", " I asked him. "Why on earth did they cover the bottom of the plate with something they didn't want me to eat?" he replied.
He had a point.
We were able to get through most of the remainder of the meal without incident. Until dessert. Assorted petit four glacé... Several tiny fondant covered cakes. Not a morsel of chocolate among them, Mr. Scoop discovered as he jammed his thumb into each one in a desperate attempt to find some cocoa laden goodness. Alas none was to be had.
That's when he lost it and climbed on top of the table.
I believe you know the rest of the story.
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