Wednesday, June 18, 2003
Gather ’round the evening fire, gentle reader, as I recount one of the most singular epics ever to unfold in the world of fine dining. In the interest of protecting identities, I will propose that four characters–a Rhetorician, an Honest Farmboy from Wisconsin, a Japanese Nobleman, and the Most Magnificent CEO–innocently wanted to dine at Gibsons Steak House. This is a tale of desire and loss, of how one martini can eviscerate the honor of men most fine.
Bumpity-bump went the four gents down Lake Shore Drive, rain and unpleasant weather be damned. They arrived just a few minutes late, and the comely hostess seated them in a prime spot. Within minutes, the finest tap water was poured, raw cuts of meat were trotted out for the gents’ perusal, and orders were placed. Our “culinary guide,” whom some of you might crassly call a “waiter,” flashed a gold-toothed smile and held forth in a thick accent of indeterminate origin. Was he Mafia? Did he hail from India? Who knows? In the tradition of Mark Twain, I will simply refer to him as “Ferguson.”
This sounds normal, does it not? How I weep for your ignorance, naïve reader.
Within moments of plowing through his salad, Honest Farmboy developed an acute hankering for a dry martini. He flagged over Ferguson and made his request.
“A dry martini?” asked Ferguson, swarthy eyebrow raised.
Honest Farmboy answered in the affirmative, and Ferguson asked for identification, which was fished out and promptly proffered. Licenses that belong to Honest Farmpeople of Wisconsin, dear reader, apparently incite malice and suspicion. Ferguson instantly started mumbling some incantation or another.
“Hummublablaorthosciliblablapia?” he asked intelligibly.
At this point, Honest Farmboy leaned back in his solid-wood chair and thought long and hard. He stroked his chin and looked almost philosophical. After a healthy ten seconds, he replied heartily.
“BOMBAY,” he said.
Unbeknownst to Honest Farmboy, Ferguson wanted to confirm the date of birth on the license. Japanese Nobleman and Rhetorician were slightly disappointed at the suggested birthday, to be sure, and Magnificent CEO quite honestly wasn’t listening.
The major-city-of-India-answer apparently confirmed Ferguson’s suspicions.
“Wuddisyoursign?” he cornered Honest Farmboy.
“Scorpio,” was the surprised answer.
Ferguson grunted acknowledgement and regally swept into the kitchen. After a few minutes, he returned with condolences that no dry martinis would be poured for Honest Farmboy. One theory, of course, is that Ferguson stepped through the double doors not to inquire about the license, but to SCRATCH HIS ASS. That, however, is another story. Actually, it’s not.
Suffice to say that the evening went downhill. If our four heroes suspected that Gibsons was trying to rush them out of the restaurant before, those suspicions were only confirmed by this turn of events.
Honest Farmboy assiduously tried to finish his salad, only to have it literally ripped out of his hands by another waiter as main courses were quickly plopped down in front of the four gents.
Magnificent CEO knew that equivocating “medium-rare/bloody” with “tasty” was, put eloquently, a crock of shit, so he had ordered Jack Nicholson’s alleged favorite (the steak sandwich) done medium-well. It arrived medium-RARE, so he persuaded Rhetorician to eat the meat; sending it back, after all, would’ve invited a generous serving of spit. The deal was struck, the two parties attempted to move said meat, but said meat decided to plop into the sour cream. Rhetorician was left to fend for himself as he extracted steak from condiment. And BOY, was Magnificent CEO’s tomato, onion, lettuce, cheese, and goddamn newly-vegetarian ciabatta sandwich TASTY.
Ferguson hopefully didn’t see any of this, but there is a small chance that he did.
Japanese Nobleman sat stolidly through all of his, quietly munching his New York sirloin, and looked ready to commit ritual suicide out of embarrassment. Rhetorician would be quick to point out that this is called “Hairy Kerry” in Japanese.
Although Japanese Nobleman probably wanted to drag the other three kids out of Gibsons right then and there, the night wasn’t done yet. You see, the four gents requested dessert menus–which were NOT offered, by the way–and as soon as Rhetorician voiced his desire for apple turnover, Ferguson quickly left.
“Ahtheappleturnover–izbigenoughforallyou,” he said as he bolted into the kitchen, blithely ignoring the other three potential orders.
What’s the moral of the story? I have no idea, but “Bombay” sure as hell is the word of the day.