I ought to feel a lot worse. We were at the table for nearly four hours; a lot of wine was consumed. And then some grappa. And then the bar closed, or so I was told. I did not grumble. Having a good time with a woman not my wife, at a restaurant which in the past I’ve visited only with my wife, is a very sure way of pissing off the establishment’s female waitstaff. How were they to know that my companion was one of my wife’s oldest friends (going back to second grade) — and, anyway, so what? Especially when elaborate lengths were gone to to make sure that I couldn’t pay for anything? Especially when the lady all but stood on a table — let me make it clear right now that she did not actually stand on a table at any time, or on anything but the floor — and, brandishing a red silk shawl, announced that she was heading down to the Carlyle to do some serious flirting?

I had a lot of fun, but I wasn’t the demonstrative member of the party. It wasn’t my idea to request an amuse-bouche from the chef at the beginning of the meal or a zabaglione at the end. It wasn’t my idea to ask the chef to come out and meet us. No, no, no! I would never ever do such a thing. All I can say is that Kathleen’s friend has been living in a distant city, one that discretion forbids me to name, for nearly thirty years. It is different out there, less sedate somehow. Of course it is less sedate everywhere than on the Upper East Side, outside of the nation’s assisted-living communities, anyway.

We will have to go back to the restaurant soon, Kathleen and I, and Kathleen will tell the waitstaff what a good husband I am to take her oldest friend to dinner (or to let himself be taken out by her) when, owing to an unforeseen conflict, Kathleen had to be in Florida. She has seen this happen before. Up close.

Maybe I’ve told this story before; I hope not recently. For a little while, many years ago, Kathleen decided to give contact lenses one last try, so that she could wear hats. Many years ago. We were going out to dinner. Without the glasses on her face, Kathleen indulged in a whimsical experiment with eye makeup. Then she pinned a small hat with a lot of face veil into her hair, and we walked a few blocks to the regular place.

By dessert, the waitresses were all but hurling dishes onto the table. We had no idea why they were being so rude, because it never occurred to us that they thought that Kathleen was Another Woman. Oh, the peals of laughter when the veil was lifted! Oh, the weirdness of the lesson unto me! I thought that that sort of mixup happened only in comedies.

My choice of restaurant last night was a mistake, but I don’t know how I could have avoided it, as I was specifically asked to select a quiet restaurant, where we could talk, and my first choice — a restaurant that I go to with all sorts of people all the time — was ruled out, because that’s the only restaurant that our friend’s father will go to anymore, and she’s tired of it.

Did I mention that Kathleen is cutting short her Florida trip, and coming home tonight? 

Drop me a line at rjk@dailyblague.com
This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 24th, 2012 at 11:39 am.