FREAKIN’ SWORDFISH?

Swordfish_600 We went to dinner with a small group of friends over the weekend. At a steakhouse. With steak. And beef. And big knives. And steak.

We all got settled in, had a drink, and the waiter came and did his, "Hi I’m (insert innocuous name here) and I’ll be taking care of you guys tonight…blah..blah..blah…."

As we had eaten at this place before, I didn’t really look at the menu. Then (insert innocuous name here) came back and said he was ready to take our orders. The ladies went first, and then it was my turn. With little thought I said, "I’ll have the swordfish."

Stone silence, except for my buddy at the other end of the table. He raised his eyes over his menu, and said wryly…"swordfish?"

The implication was not, "I’m sorry, I did not hear what you ordered. And since you are my friend and I interested in what is going on inyour life, I was just curious to see what your choice was." No rather his implication was "YOU ORDERED THE SWORDFISH? WE ARE AT A FREAKIN’ STEAKHOUSE WHERE THEY GIGANTIC SLABS OF FREAKIN’ BEEF THAT WAS FLOWN IN FROM SOME FARM IN MONTANA OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT AND YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO WHISPER ‘I’LL HAVE THE SWORDFISH’ TO (insert innocuous name here). IS THAT WHAT YOUR ORDERED? SERIOUSLY, IS THAT WHAT YOU ORDERED…THE SWORDFISH…SHEESH…COME ON HONEY WE ARE LEAVING. I AM NOT SITTING AT A TABLE WITH A GUY WHO ORDERS THE FREAKIN’ SWORDFISH AT A STEAK PLACE…SHEESH…."

So I said, "did you hear me say swordfish…no I didn’t say swordfish…it was…I must have coughed…what I meant to say was Prime Rib. Yes prime rib. A large, gigantic slab of prime rib. Rare. Very rare. Super extra rare. So rare and manly that there is no confusion about what sort of food I eat. No sirree, I only eat the beef, no fish for me. It is manly food. Sturdy food. Drug from the land, not netted from the sea. No swordfish for me, no sir, no way."

And I ate the prime rib and l liked it. I loved it.

Then when dinner was done, and the dishes of half eaten slabs of extra rare bovine were cleared from the table, Mr. (insert innocuous name here) came around again with the dessert menu. And asked if we would like something to drink with our dessert.

So I ordered coffee. Hot, black coffee. No cream, no sugar, certainly no artificial sweetener from a pink package. And so you ask, what, pray tell, did Mr. "YOU ORDERED THE SWORDFISH" for dinner have to sip on after dinner?

Hot tea. With his pinky extended high in the air.

Not that there’s anything wrong with FREAKIN’ HOT TEA….

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Posted on February 8, 2007, in Dad stuff. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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