Last Night's Dinner...

    Hotel bars are fascinating places, sometimes.  Trust me, I've spent enough time in them to spot the genuine, worn out travellers and the thirsty locals who swing in to get cheap drinks from their friends who happen to be working.  It's pretty easy, actually, since the non-locals tend to either complain or rave on about the price of drinks.

 

    "My god!" One businessman says, contemplating the bottle before him with an awestruck look upon his unshaven face.

    "It's huge, huh?"  His companion responds.

    For a while, they sit there gaping like Neanderthals in some bizarre scene out of a Stanley Kubrick film as they admire the wonders before them.

    "It's full of bubbles," one says.

    "And only two bucks!"

    "I love Milwaukee,"  they say in unison before descending into an alcohol-induced, frat-boy frenzy eventualy ending in extremely off-key rendition of Barry Manilow's "Mandy," sung in a sort of Quasimodo-esque hunched-over state since they've yet to realize they've inadvertently gotten their ties tangled into the zippers of their trousers.  Last night wasn't much different.  But, this isn't about that.

 

    Earlier in the day, the Kinda-Sorta-Girlfriend (KSG) brought over a six-pack to help me fill my new fridge, and --get this-- watch the Formula One British Grand Prix on TV.  I know.  It's baffling that a woman would actually want to watch that sort of thing, but not only did she sit glued to the TV, but she also knew the names of every, single driver out there, who they drove for, and apparently their sexual orientation.  Even better, she moved to The States from Birmingham, England, 22 years ago, and still has a slight accent and an adorable way of referring to Michael Schumacher as a "ponce."  Now, I don't quite know what a ponce is, but even with my Teutonic heritage, I found myself giggling.

 

    Anyway, after the race and a ten minute discussion on David Coulthard's complete lack of tescticular fortitude, KSG and I headed out to meet my parents for a nice dinner at the restaurant in the Radisson Hotel, and she didn't seem the slightest bit nervous (take that Mr. Coulthard!). 

 

    "I would like a bourbon manhattan with lots of cherries," KSG said to the bartener as we took our seats at the bar and waited for my tardy folks.  And, when the bartender looked at me, I nodded and said I'd like the same. 

    

    When the drinks arrived a short time later, KSG took a sip, made a funny face and said something that sounded a lot like "woof."

    

    Curious, I took a drink of mine, and though it was somewhat strong, I didn't think it required any sort of face-pinching or woofing. 

 

    "Ooo...  Tough guy," she said.  "Likes his liquor strong."

    "And my women easy," I replied.

    "Ha!"  She laughed. 

 

    Stretched along the bar were two drunk businessmen, hitting on three girls who were eyeballing five beer-drinking construction workers who all looked too tired to notice.  Around the end of the bar were two men in Hawaiian shirts, and at a table behind them was a woman who looked to be waiting for someone as she kept looking from her watch to the TV and back to her watch again and again.  It was a typically eccentric hotel crowd, I guess.

    

    Eventually, my parents arrived.  And, after the introductions, KSG ordered a manhattan sans cherries for my father and a vodka gimlet for my mother.  And, when my father took a sip of his drink, he grunted something along the lines of "hmph," to which she and I shared a little laugh. 

 

    "I have something for you," KSG said to my mother, before rummaging around inside her back-pack/purse.  "It's in here somehwere.  Dammit!  I just put it in here."

 

    My father and I just sipped our drinks and my mother watched as KSG unloaded her cargo of "neccessities" onto the bar.  My mother looked at me with a glare as if to say, See?  She's British, and it's the scurvy that's made her mad.  She needs an orange.

 

    "Ah-ha!" KSG exclaimed shortly into the excavation, and she poudly held up a somewhat crumpled brown, paper bag as an offering to my mother.  "I hope you like it."

 

    Now, when my mother receives any sort of gift, she first issues an endless stream of protests ranging from "you don't have to get me anything," to a sort of surprised laughter.   Then, eventually, she opens the gift and issues a gasping sort of exclamation as if she'd just been handed the Hope Diamond or something.  I'm serious.  You could slap a ribbon on a Bic lighter and hand it to her, and her response would be the same. 

 

    However, this time, my mother's surprise was truly genuine.  "Oh my," she exclaimed.  "Look," she said handing her gift to my ambivalent father who simply looked at me and shrugged.  Then, she hugged KSG, and explained how perfect her gift was.  Yep.  KSG could have taken out a knife at that moment and stabbed me in the face, and my mom probably wouldn't have given it any thought. 

 

    When the Matre de came to collect us and guide us to our table, my mother, still beaming from her wonderful gift, excitedly showed it to him.  And, in a patronizing tone, he voiced his appreciation. 

 

    As my folks walked in front of us, KSG leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Sheesh.  She really likes it, huh?"

    "You don't understand," I said.  "You pretty much just gave my mother a huge rock of crystal meth." 

    "It's just cheese," KSG said with a giggle. 

    "No," I said.  "It's Stilton blue cheese.  She once sent my claustrophobic father through the Chunnel when they were in France in order to satisfy her fix.  She's a Stilton junkie." 

 

    Needless to say, it was a very pleasant dinner.  My mom put some of her gift on her salad and anything else she could find.  KSG and my father discussed the Renault F1 turbo-charger (yeah...  weird), and I munched on enough deep-fried, panko-breaded appetizers to incite a panic in the Japanese bread-crumb industry.  All in all, it was a pretty nice day. 

 

     Now, I know you're all wondering why I call her the "Kinda-Sorta-Girlfriend," huh?  Well, it started out as a sort of game; however, now it's a total challenge.  She is SO going to call me her "boyfriend" first.  In fact, I've already emailed some of her friends demanding that they tell me if she ever lets it slip.  There's even money involved, people!   Yes.  It's childish and dumb.  But, that's what she gets for dating an idiot like me.