Out for dinner. French restaurant.
Cute. They had white paper tablecloths but did not provide crayons.
I had one of those awkward moments where the waitress brought the wine
over and made me taste it. I usually spend my afternoons eating Sour
Patch Kids and Toffifay; I am not the best person to recruit for a wine
tasting. (I do keep wanting to send a bottle back, though. In fact,
one of these days it would be nice to send back about 15 bottle in a
row and then finally settle on a Dr. Pepper, but that's one of those
things you talk about and never do. I am more likely to get a steak
with an enormous wad of pubic hair sitting right on top of it and then
eat it without complaint than send back a bottle of wine)
Dinner was great, and I even ate liver which I think was appreciated
because the French are always trying to make people eat weird organs
and arteries for dinner. However, when dessert came around I was in
a ridiculous bind. I coveted only one item on the dessert menu but it
was an item that I was too self-conscious to order because of the obvious
implications associated with it. My date was a bit horrified at my choice,
too, but felt I should do what I want, not what I think others should
want of me. Which is why, not without feeling extremely self-conscious,
I poked at my fresh strawberry sorbet for the rest of the meal. ( the
waitress who delivered the bright pink dessert even instinctively placed
the sweet little dish in front of my dinner date, making the gesture
of moving it to my place setting even more dramatic)
Does my secret love for sorbet
make me gay?
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these words © 1999 todd levin.