This is the sixth of a series (click here, here, here, here and here) in which we ask loyal YesButNoButYes reader and commenter "Dave" to discuss how he'd handle himself in an awkward situation. Last time, we asked him what to do when you've fallen in love with your hairstylist. This time, we ask him about fancy restaurants.
As most of our loyal readers know, I'm amazing; both in personality and appearance ... and style, and finger puppet making. Also I'm great at Scrabble and have an uncanny ability to differentiate fat chicks from pregnant chicks. Earlier, I may have made mention to the fact that I was falling in love with my hairstylist. This blew up in my face as my girlfriend Lindsey (who I thought was illiterate) read it and decided to fly out to the West Coast to "think about things" (i.e., get plowed by anyone with a semblance of facial hair, up to and including Greek women*.) I went out there and got her back. It didn't take much convincing as she realized, without me, there's no way she'd get into exclusive clubs, or go on that trip to Epcot Center I had planned.
Once safely back in New York City, I felt I should treat her a bit better. After all, this is the woman I make fold my clothes and de-shell my edamame. I can't have her holding a grudge. And the way to any woman's heart is with my large, thick ... wallet. So I've been taking her out to dinner at fancy restaurants and allowing her to get more than just the field greens salad.
Last week, we went to a new-ish restaurant in our neighborhood and were seated close to the front near the door. This is normally the case as, with my beauty, they'd like to remind patrons and potential patrons that good-looking people dine at their establishment, which gives credence to their restaurant. I thought the movement of the spotlight to ensconce my well coiffed hair in a halo of mood lighting was a bit much, but I decided not to protest as it kept my head warm, and allowed the other customers to see the intricate shades of brown and amber in my hair.
We picked out our meals, though Lindsey may have noticed me wince when she ordered the Maine Sea Scallop appetizer and the Monkfish entree. After our bread was delivered, a waiter came by with a tray of various small items compliments of the chef. This is par for the course as, if you give me free food, not only will I stay longer at your restaurant and improve the décor, but I'll tell my good-looking friends and they'll come to the restaurant as well. Our waiter went through the dish, naming what each serving was. He was not from this country, and as such, I hoped Lindsey would be able to translate as I only know a few choice words in Spanish which I use to yell at my gardeners when they forget to spread the mulch in counter-clockwise circles. As he left, I looked at Lindsey for some help. She retained nothing and shrugged. In his description, I heard what I thought was "sweetbreads." And if I know one thing, it's that there's no fucking way I'll eat thymus.
So here is the dilemma. I'm already on fragile footing with Lindsey. If I scoff at eating brain, she may see me as unadventurous and move back out West. Also, I could insult this restaurant that went out of its way to make me happy. And I wouldn't want some disease ridden sous-chef in the back spitting in my food because I turned down his gift of fried glands. But if I did eat it, it would almost surely come right back up. Not only would this cause a scene, but it would ruin my 12 year vomit-free run I've got going. So Dave, to eat or not to eat, that is the question.
*Not all Greek women have facial hair. Most of them do, but not all.
Once safely back in New York City, I felt I should treat her a bit better. After all, this is the woman I make fold my clothes and de-shell my edamame. I can't have her holding a grudge. And the way to any woman's heart is with my large, thick ... wallet. So I've been taking her out to dinner at fancy restaurants and allowing her to get more than just the field greens salad.
Last week, we went to a new-ish restaurant in our neighborhood and were seated close to the front near the door. This is normally the case as, with my beauty, they'd like to remind patrons and potential patrons that good-looking people dine at their establishment, which gives credence to their restaurant. I thought the movement of the spotlight to ensconce my well coiffed hair in a halo of mood lighting was a bit much, but I decided not to protest as it kept my head warm, and allowed the other customers to see the intricate shades of brown and amber in my hair.
We picked out our meals, though Lindsey may have noticed me wince when she ordered the Maine Sea Scallop appetizer and the Monkfish entree. After our bread was delivered, a waiter came by with a tray of various small items compliments of the chef. This is par for the course as, if you give me free food, not only will I stay longer at your restaurant and improve the décor, but I'll tell my good-looking friends and they'll come to the restaurant as well. Our waiter went through the dish, naming what each serving was. He was not from this country, and as such, I hoped Lindsey would be able to translate as I only know a few choice words in Spanish which I use to yell at my gardeners when they forget to spread the mulch in counter-clockwise circles. As he left, I looked at Lindsey for some help. She retained nothing and shrugged. In his description, I heard what I thought was "sweetbreads." And if I know one thing, it's that there's no fucking way I'll eat thymus.
So here is the dilemma. I'm already on fragile footing with Lindsey. If I scoff at eating brain, she may see me as unadventurous and move back out West. Also, I could insult this restaurant that went out of its way to make me happy. And I wouldn't want some disease ridden sous-chef in the back spitting in my food because I turned down his gift of fried glands. But if I did eat it, it would almost surely come right back up. Not only would this cause a scene, but it would ruin my 12 year vomit-free run I've got going. So Dave, to eat or not to eat, that is the question.
*Not all Greek women have facial hair. Most of them do, but not all.
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Oh good God, be a man and show some f*cking tears. Tell her your delima and she will be endeared by your self-centered desire to win in all corners. She will eat the brains and you'll look all sensitive and caring.
Geez.
Brother Bill has it almost right. What he meant to say was, "Grow a pair!" If a potful of people around you can eat the things you could too! Eat 'em and find a new taste thrill. If all you're gonna do is barf 'em back up, you need to stay with eating places you can handle, like Mickey D's.
What's wrong with Lindsey that she's clinging to your whiny ass?
You can always say you are "vegetarian". Many veges eat fish - and contend they are in fact vegetarians.
Or, you can ask for a dipping sauce of some sort to trick your brain - no pun intended.
Or, take a bite, say you don't wan't to ruin your appetite, and offer the rest to her.
Or, just do what I used to do as a kid, spit it out in your napkin, or hide it in your drink.
Interesting one, this, because we get into the whole "putting strange organs into the mouth" discussion, which can go both ways.
Never let 'em see you puke Echo. You have too much going on for yourself. You'll lose more cool points tossing your cookies in a restaurant, than you would turning down the thymus. If Lindsey has something to say about it, make a hair appointment straight away.
Open mouth.
Insert food.
Bring up napkin.
Pretend to wipe mouth.
Spit out food in napkin
Empty food in jacket pocket or pants.
Repeat.
Only eat half the dish, claim not to want to fill up before the main course. When plate is cleared head to the bathroom and empty your pockets. Gag & flush.
(Hey, it work for half an episode of Seinfeld.)
Go both ways? Nice try scaramouch, nice try.
If you think not eating freebies from the kitchen will make the chefs mad, wait til you hork on their floor. Always turn down stuff you think yer gona hork.
You should have told her that you had already eaten sweetbreads/brains/whatever for lunch just that day. Who wants to eat the same meal twice in a row?
Alternately, you could have told her that you recently decided to start watching your diet and just ordering the soup while claiming that the other menu items are too rich or fattening or high in cholesterol.
One, sweetbreads don't taste that bad if properly prepared.
two, don't watch the end of Hannibal before you go out. Watching Ray Liotta eat his own brain is not in image you want in your head if you are trying not to hork.
three, eat Military rations for three days straight before going out to dinner. After 3 days of MREs, you'll eat them brains raw just to get some real food.
seriously, subsist on this shit for three days.
http://xbradtc.files.wordpress.com/2008/06/800px-mre_contents.jpg
SP--even if I didn't already respect our military, the concept of eating meals ready to exit (as an ex used to 'fondly' call them) makes me salute each and every current and past serviceman and woman. Consider yourself saluted.
Dude! You're mackin skillz are off if you need to eat this wack shit to keep your woman.
Hopefully Dave can help you out. In the meantime google Mack Lessons.
Some fucked up shit here player!
SO, we used to call them Meals Rejected by Ethiopians, but the premise is the same.
Try watching bizarre foods on the travel channel sometime. If it looks good, eat it.