DINNER'S ON ME
'The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.'
--cliche
'Is this... wild salmon?' asked John Short, restaurant critic extraordinaire. The impatient waitress didn't care.
'Isn't all salmon wild?' and she was about to walk away.
'Bah! Such insolence,' huffed the stout foodie, his grey hair shaking. 'Girl, there is farmed and there is wild. Please ask the chef... which it is I am eating...' She headed off. 'I tell you,' and he sipped his bulbous wine glass, 'some people don't know a thing.'
'I didn't know there's a diff,' responded Boyd, his fit young companion. It was his first venture into a posh restaurant... his first client in fact.
'Of course it does,' railed the chubby senior. 'The farmed fish is so tasteless; the wild, untamed, natural variety... its flesh is so appetising...'
The entrees were cleared and in the awkward intermission, they spoke about the weather.
The same unlucky girl returned with the mains. 'I chose a pinot gris,' he moaned. 'This is a pinot grigio!' That was soon cleared up. 'So tell me, how is your ratatouille?'
'Yeah, it's nice,' grinned Boyd. 'Tastes like chicken.' Somewhat later, the lad discretely pointed to his own upper lip.
'Yes, your mole--though an imperfection--is quite fetching,' and he dug into his veal with veloute sauce.
Poor Boyd--he had been trying to point out that Short's chin was splotched with food.
'So you really haven't escorted before?' Short asked.
'No, I haven't,' he shyly responded. 'But I sort of need the money. I'm saving up.'
'I won't bother to ask why. You should loosen up--it's such a turn-off. I mean, how many other dates would have taken you here?'
'Sorry...I normally eat burgers and stuff. I like being in the city and that... just thinking about later...'
'Oh yes... that little problem...' and the critic winked. 'Here: drink. You'll like this gewurztraminer...'
'Yeah. I been out with guys before but never...'
'Darling, I'm forking out $300... I thought you knew what that entitles me to.'
'Desserts?' the waitress materialised, menus in hand.
'We'll take a look,' continued Short. 'Plus I'm treating you to a dinner beyond your wildest Westie dreams. So don't take the pig to market if it's not ready for slaughter. Oh... and take your elbows off the table.'
Slightly aghast, poor Boyd ruminated for a while. He then drew breath, leaned forward, and said: 'So this is your job? You go around eating at places and then writing?'
'Yes! It's almost a crime!' Short lauded with indulgent delight.
'And who pays for the food?'
'The paper. They pay my fees and the food,' and again he drank.
Boyd was face down, furrowed brow sweating. Rotund Short hovered over his pale, timid body. Thoughts of pain, disease and fear welled in the poor boy. He whipped himself off the bed, turned round and lunged for his clothes. 'I can't do this!' he declared.
'But I've already paid!'
Andrew Staker 2007 mallowisious@hotmail.com