I went to another fancy birthday dinner this weekend. (People please. Enough with the fancy restaurants already. Take me to Chili's and let's have a blooming onion or something.)
In addition to guzzling a magnum of prosecco, I ordered a salad of mozzarella and tomaotoes and basil because I can pick those things apart and figure out how much I am eating. So, it comes. And, typical, there's an artistic smear of green chunky sauce in the middle of the plate. I ask the gorgeous waiter what it is, might it be pesto?
Gorgeous: no, it's fresh basil.
Me (in my head): bullshit. I see the fresh basil leaves.
Me (outloud): Um, no I mean the green liquidy stuff.
Me: (waving Gorgeous back): So, is this like pesto? Is it pine nuts? Because I'm allergic to nuts. I mean, it's not that I don't like nuts. It's that if I eat them I will die. Like, right here at your table. I'll DIE.
Me (in my head): comprende? Jesus! Are you trying to kill me?
G: No no no, it's an aioli of fresh basil.
Me (in my head): bullshit.
Gorgeous goes away. I don't eat. Gorgeous comes back.
G: Oh, I spoke with the chef and now the aioli is made with pesto. Let me take that away and bring you a new one.
Me (in my head): NOW? Just now he's making it with pine nuts?
Me (outloud, sweetly): Oh thank you. I'd hate to die right here during this fancy birthday party.
Seriously, fancy restaurants are great. I love paying a lot of money for delicious food. But I am 50 times more likely to die at one of these places.
D, I love you. Let's go have some tequila for your birthday.