I met Christine through mutual friends–friends who will soon be receiving horses heads in their mailboxes. Christine is an accountant, which may explain her inability to look me in the eyes when speaking. Nevertheless, she is reasonably attractive and her voice is low and sultry, the kind of voice excels at whispering naughty things.
I always prefer to take women out for a meal they express interest in, so when she mentioned that she loves a good steak–something about having a thick piece of meat to gnaw on, I imagine–I asked around and located a decent steak house within reasonable driving distance.
When we arrived, my reservation had been lost. The hostess said she would find us a table as soon as she could, but that it might be a bit of a wait. I offered to take Christine elsewhere, but she said she didn’t mind waiting. What she failed to mention was that she didn’t mind waiting no more than a few minutes. After the first five minutes, she went up to the hostess and demanded to know what was taking so long. The hostess attempted to reason with her, and then I attempted to reason with her, but she kept saying that it was wrong to make us wait so long. She kept this up every five minutes until we were seated a half-hour later.
We ordered drinks–a glass of white wine for her, a martini for me–and then looked over the menu. Fortunately for me, there was a fish special that evening–grilled swordfish steaks–but then I ordered said fish special.
“You’re ordering fish at a steak house?” Christine asked as the waitress was writing down my order. “That’s really kind of stupid. Try the [some kind of steak that I have mentally blocked out].”
No, my dear, I do not want a steak. I dislike the taste of red meat, and I am quite hungry. Can I please order what I want since I am paying for this meal and I sincerely doubt you will be repaying me at any point this evening?
“The swordfish, please,” I said to the waitress.
Then she went on and on about how people order food that is not the specialty of a particular restaurant even thought these people are paying a premium for the restaurant. When I tried to explain that I had picked this restaurant because she said she liked steak, she said that I was being condescending.
When our salads arrived, she did not receive enough dressing.
When her steak arrived, it was too tough.
When the bill arrived, she wanted to know if she could have dessert.
“Well, I can tell I’m not getting dessert, so no, you cannot have dessert.”
That one went right over her head.
At least I drove her home. My first inclination was to leave her at the restaurant–go the restroom and then slip out that back–but that would have been extreme.
