Where’s My Bacon?
I’m at a McCormick and Schmick’s restaurant with a date. As we peruse the cocktail menu I see a drink that almost gives me an orgasm – a dirty Grey Goose martini with olives stuffed with blue cheese and bacon.
“I’m so getting that,” I tell my date.
“Vodka, cheese and bacon,” she says. “Three of your favorite things.”
“I wonder how many calories are in it?”
When the waiter comes to the table we order our cocktails. Boy, I can’t wait. But two minutes later the waiter comes back with a nervous look on his face. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “We don’t have the olives with blue cheese and bacon.”
“I knew it was too good to be true,” I say humorously.
“We can give you olives just stuffed with blue cheese.”
“That’s fine. No problem.”
“I’m sorry,” the waiter says again.
“If that’s the worst thing that happens to me then I’m ahead of the curve. Don’t worry about it.”
“You poor thing,” my date says after the waiter walks away.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say. “But you know what? When I was a waiter some customers would absolutely lose their shit over this.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Oh yeah. I had people yell at me when we ran out of stuff. They’d either insult me or ask to see the manager.”
“Glad I was never a waitress.”
“Some customers are just assholes. Unable to tolerate disappointment.”
“Well, you handled that nicely.”
The waiter returns with our drinks. Despite not having bacon in it, my martini is excellent. After a few minutes perusing the menu we order the large oyster sampler, an iceberg wedge, bouillabaisse for the lady and sea bass over udon noodles with miso sauce for me. Yummy.
After we slurp down our oysters my martini is gone so I order another. Hey, my date’s driving. My second drink arrives with the iceberg wedge. They’ve spilt it in the back for us. Classy.
“Would you like some cucumber on your salad?” the waiter asks, holding a condiment tray.
“Yes, please,” my date says.
“Crumbled blue cheese?”
“Load it on,” I say.
“Hey!” I say teasingly. “There’s the bacon for my drink!” The waiter smiles awkwardly.
“Sure, I say “I’ll have some.” The waiter sprinkles the pork fat goodness on my salad.
“A little more please,” I say, waving him on. And when the waiter departs my date remove the olives from my drink and stuffs the extra bacon into the blue cheese. Hubba hubba.
“All fixed,” she says with a brilliant smile.
I’ve never had bacon in a drink before and, to be honest, it’s a bit weird. The grease from the bacon has created an oil slick on the surface of the vodka. Weird, but tasty.
“Good?” my date asks.
“Everything that I imagined.”
After we finish our salads the entrees come out. They’re excellent.
“So were your customers really that tough?” my date asks after daintily eating a mussel.
“Eighty percent of them we’re really nice. But the other twenty percent could be real tools.”
“I once had a lady order a tuna steak rare and it came out medium rare. I immediately offered to replace it but she had a psychotic break yelling, ‘You have ruined my entire weekend!’”
“Luckily her husband intervened. He knew she was nuts.”
Meal finished, we order a vanilla baked apple en croute with crème fraiche and coffee. After we polish it off the waiter brings the check to the table.
“Let me get this,” my date says, reaching for her purse. I knew I liked this girl.
“Let’s play a little game instead,” I say grabbing the check holder and placing up to my head like Carnac the Magnificent. “The person who comes closest to guessing the bill gets to pay.”
“I say it’s a hundred and ten,” my date says.
“I say it’s one-thirty.” And when I open the check the bill is $128.98. I win.
“You are good,” my date says.
“My dear, you have no idea.”
I pay the bill with my Amex card and tip twenty-eight dollars in cash. The waiter earned it – even without the bacon.