Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Good friends, bad fly
There I sat, watching Marcel and his friend Marceau buzz between the steak display and my wine glass. I was overwhelmed by my great luck. I sipped a Cabernet-Shiraz blend from Australia amid conversation between another amazing blend: the Virginia-Georgia-South Carolina friends.
You never know what to expect from a night like this. Big hats, short skirts and a steakhouse. Hopefully followed by beer on a back porch and a long, quiet walk home. That’s just one option. Another option is a wild dance party spurred by Euro-trash music and bad décor. This is only made plausible by the afore mentioned Cabernet-Shiraz (thank you, Australia). Instead of a steakhouse and big hats, maybe summer skirts and too much sun combine with cans of beer and grilled treats.
This choose-your-own evening has one common thread: the friends. Time spent among this crowd of a Puck, a Bridget and an Annie Hall can only mean fun. The food is integral only in that it brought us to the table. The wine could be Yellow Tail for all we care, after enough glasses, we’re happy as toast (with marmalade, of course).
By bringing friends together, an evening of doughy bread, horseradish and mussels (hopefully not flexed) is just as tasty and fulfilling as an evening of the finest coconut curry-laced tofu.
But then, with every meal, there’s always a Marcel. Marcel might be a fly in your wine or a hair in your Pad Thai. Either way, nothing is perfect. Maybe Marcel comes in the form of a socially inept bystander, distracting you from your cool, brisk Miller Lite and the giggles at a dancing “professional.” The quirk only adds to the laughter.
Back to the steak display. Marcel chased Marceau between an obstacle course made up of my wine glass, the butter tray and our menu: a wheeling, wooden cart of various cuts of beef, culminating in a 48-ounce monstrosity that lands the winning diner—or fly—in the “48 Ounce Club”. Good times and great conversation can distract you from dead cuts of beef, but nothing could make up for Sal, the dying lobster. As we watched Marcel buzz by that sad, dying Sal, we hid our faces from Sal’s accusing eyes.
The guilt of our good time was only cured by more wine and Sal, on his bed of beef, wheeling away. On to torment another table, I’m sure. We may have waved good-bye to Sal, but Marcel was with us to stay. He was enamored with the conversation, I’m sure. Memories of times past, plans for summer and laughs at the end of a long week.
As we our night together that night, we all knew it would be something special. What we couldn’t believe, though, was that we would return with a friend like no other, a friendly follower in Marcel. He buzzed along behind us knowing that there may not be Saran-wrapped steak at our destination, but there sure would be good times.
You never know what to expect from a night like this. Big hats, short skirts and a steakhouse. Hopefully followed by beer on a back porch and a long, quiet walk home. That’s just one option. Another option is a wild dance party spurred by Euro-trash music and bad décor. This is only made plausible by the afore mentioned Cabernet-Shiraz (thank you, Australia). Instead of a steakhouse and big hats, maybe summer skirts and too much sun combine with cans of beer and grilled treats.
This choose-your-own evening has one common thread: the friends. Time spent among this crowd of a Puck, a Bridget and an Annie Hall can only mean fun. The food is integral only in that it brought us to the table. The wine could be Yellow Tail for all we care, after enough glasses, we’re happy as toast (with marmalade, of course).
By bringing friends together, an evening of doughy bread, horseradish and mussels (hopefully not flexed) is just as tasty and fulfilling as an evening of the finest coconut curry-laced tofu.
But then, with every meal, there’s always a Marcel. Marcel might be a fly in your wine or a hair in your Pad Thai. Either way, nothing is perfect. Maybe Marcel comes in the form of a socially inept bystander, distracting you from your cool, brisk Miller Lite and the giggles at a dancing “professional.” The quirk only adds to the laughter.
Back to the steak display. Marcel chased Marceau between an obstacle course made up of my wine glass, the butter tray and our menu: a wheeling, wooden cart of various cuts of beef, culminating in a 48-ounce monstrosity that lands the winning diner—or fly—in the “48 Ounce Club”. Good times and great conversation can distract you from dead cuts of beef, but nothing could make up for Sal, the dying lobster. As we watched Marcel buzz by that sad, dying Sal, we hid our faces from Sal’s accusing eyes.
The guilt of our good time was only cured by more wine and Sal, on his bed of beef, wheeling away. On to torment another table, I’m sure. We may have waved good-bye to Sal, but Marcel was with us to stay. He was enamored with the conversation, I’m sure. Memories of times past, plans for summer and laughs at the end of a long week.
As we our night together that night, we all knew it would be something special. What we couldn’t believe, though, was that we would return with a friend like no other, a friendly follower in Marcel. He buzzed along behind us knowing that there may not be Saran-wrapped steak at our destination, but there sure would be good times.
