Jammin'
Saturday night I went out for a very pleasant dinner with my friend, Linda. She lives downtown, near a bunch of restaurants and, since I hadn't eaten anything but cheese and crackers for a day and a half, I thought a nice fancy salad might be in order. So we went out, had a bottle of wine, some tasty appetizers and a wonderful dinner.
Afterward, we decided to go have a drink and a cookie at the coffeehouse/restaurant across the street from her place. They have the best cookies around. The recipe was allegedly found on the side of a cream of tartar container from Gordon Foods, in case you're wondering. I don't buy cream of tartar in that large of a quantity, so I'll continue to go there for my cookie fix.
We went in and sat near the bar. It was pretty quiet, although a small trio was getting ready to play a few sets. The chef was at the bar, along with a waitress and her gay best friend. All very "big town Saturday night," you know.
I didn't notice him until he walked out toward the door with a cigar of some kind in his hand, trailing smoke through the joint. The waitress was telling him no smoking was allowed.
"He's got to go put out his cheroot," I muttered, noticing that the color of the thing wasn't anything I ever wanted to put in my mouth.
In the meantime, the bartender starts making a drink. A Long Island Iced Tea. Well, this can't be good.
He shuffles back in without his fire hazard and stands at the counter, talking to the poor waitress. I've seen her a couple of times and have found her fairly humorless, so I didn't feel particularly bad about her getting cornered by him. In fact, I thought it was kinda funny.
The guy looked like...oh, maybe Fred Mertz. With glasses. Big glasses. He was kinda toad-like. In a t-shirt. Not a spiffy dresser. Actually, he looked like he lives in the homeless hotel down the street and was having his monthly night out on the town. But the SSI payments usually come in at the beginning of the month, so I don't know where this dude got his cash.
Nachos. He orders nachos. And, damn, does he go down on them. There are strings of cheese hanging out of his mouth. Hanging. Out. Of his mouth. For minutes at at time. Until he takes a gulp of the Long Island. Then he goes back to the nachos.
By this point, he's sitting at the table right in front of the band. You couldn't get closer to them if you were measuring their inseams. They're doing that musician thing. "I don't see it. I don't see it. If I don't react, they won't know I see it."
He's got a chip stuck on his face by this point.
She's singing. He's eating. We're all laughing--all of the people in the place are laughing. And the band knows it. We know it. He's the only one who doesn't know it. Because he's so damn happy with his nachos.
Dude, I know that feeling.
I walked by him to go to the bathroom and the floor? Is littered with detritus. Tomato cubes. Green onions. Chip remains. Cheese bits. It looks like a 5-year-old went native with the nachos. He's every guy I didn't want to clean up after when I waited tables. The waitress, the one I didn't like? Is now rolling her eyes at the guy. So now? I kinda like her.
He starts singing, at one point. I can't remember the song. Some 70's rock tune, if I remember correctly. Something everyone knows the words to. Some song that is the backdrop to long summer drives out in the country as a kid. Something that has now been tarnished by cheddar strings and salsa forever.
During a break, he goes up and offers the singer a nacho. From his own hand. She politely declined.
I had to leave when he bought his second Long Island.
Afterward, we decided to go have a drink and a cookie at the coffeehouse/restaurant across the street from her place. They have the best cookies around. The recipe was allegedly found on the side of a cream of tartar container from Gordon Foods, in case you're wondering. I don't buy cream of tartar in that large of a quantity, so I'll continue to go there for my cookie fix.
We went in and sat near the bar. It was pretty quiet, although a small trio was getting ready to play a few sets. The chef was at the bar, along with a waitress and her gay best friend. All very "big town Saturday night," you know.
I didn't notice him until he walked out toward the door with a cigar of some kind in his hand, trailing smoke through the joint. The waitress was telling him no smoking was allowed.
"He's got to go put out his cheroot," I muttered, noticing that the color of the thing wasn't anything I ever wanted to put in my mouth.
In the meantime, the bartender starts making a drink. A Long Island Iced Tea. Well, this can't be good.
He shuffles back in without his fire hazard and stands at the counter, talking to the poor waitress. I've seen her a couple of times and have found her fairly humorless, so I didn't feel particularly bad about her getting cornered by him. In fact, I thought it was kinda funny.
The guy looked like...oh, maybe Fred Mertz. With glasses. Big glasses. He was kinda toad-like. In a t-shirt. Not a spiffy dresser. Actually, he looked like he lives in the homeless hotel down the street and was having his monthly night out on the town. But the SSI payments usually come in at the beginning of the month, so I don't know where this dude got his cash.
Nachos. He orders nachos. And, damn, does he go down on them. There are strings of cheese hanging out of his mouth. Hanging. Out. Of his mouth. For minutes at at time. Until he takes a gulp of the Long Island. Then he goes back to the nachos.
By this point, he's sitting at the table right in front of the band. You couldn't get closer to them if you were measuring their inseams. They're doing that musician thing. "I don't see it. I don't see it. If I don't react, they won't know I see it."
He's got a chip stuck on his face by this point.
She's singing. He's eating. We're all laughing--all of the people in the place are laughing. And the band knows it. We know it. He's the only one who doesn't know it. Because he's so damn happy with his nachos.
Dude, I know that feeling.
I walked by him to go to the bathroom and the floor? Is littered with detritus. Tomato cubes. Green onions. Chip remains. Cheese bits. It looks like a 5-year-old went native with the nachos. He's every guy I didn't want to clean up after when I waited tables. The waitress, the one I didn't like? Is now rolling her eyes at the guy. So now? I kinda like her.
He starts singing, at one point. I can't remember the song. Some 70's rock tune, if I remember correctly. Something everyone knows the words to. Some song that is the backdrop to long summer drives out in the country as a kid. Something that has now been tarnished by cheddar strings and salsa forever.
During a break, he goes up and offers the singer a nacho. From his own hand. She politely declined.
I had to leave when he bought his second Long Island.
posted by Miss Head at
2:17 PM
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