One of the things in life that many of us — including me — take pleasure in has just been stripped away from us. I am having a Britney Spears moment. That is when you have the power to remedy the situation, but you continue with the bad habits that eventually lead to you losing a relished item.
Lucky for me, in my case, it is only the cucumber relish that garnishes my coriander-spiced swordfish and not my two young sons.
How can I possibly make the comparison between a gourmet restaurant meal and a couple of innocent, pudgy-faced playboys of the future— the Brody Jenner and Spencer Pratt of 2027?
This is a tongue-in-cheek column. So in light of that, it is perfect that we are talking about licking up the last of my fabulous dinner and, well, ruddy-cheeked toddlers. See, I knew I could find a connection in this somewhere, even though when I started this column I thought I had bitten off more than I could swallow.
Oh, this is getting good and I am just warming up.
Stick a fork in it because I am through with going out to eat with my pals who work in the restaurant industry. Servers, prep cooks, bartenders, busboys, sommeliers, chefs and even dishwashers — if you work with food, stay home and boil your own pasta water. I am sure that you can turn the burner with more finesse and figure out a better salt-to-water ratio than the sous chef at Strega Ristorante in the North End of Boston.
When you make it past your early 20s, the appeal of rubbing against sweat-soaked college coeds and waking up next to someone whose first name is the only thing you know about them (if you can remember it) wears off. Thankfully.
The next step on the social-life ladder is having dinner out with your pals.
At my age, experiencing new trends in the world of wining and dining is far more pleasurable than the dollar drafts at the local dive. OK, I admit it, at times beers for a buck hit the spot more than the cumin-rubbed red snapper drizzled with a poblano pepper mole reduction. What spoils my appetite is my dinner companions.
Restaurant workers are critical, actually brutal, when it comes to eating out in establishments other than those they are loyal to. Things the normal nosher’s naked eye can’t see, they can pick up without any trouble.
Anything and everything ruins an otherwise pleasant plate in front of me. Salt shakers that are not filled to the top — gasp — that is unacceptable. Napkins folded in the wrong direction — how tacky of them. Entrées that are too cold, too hot, too bland, too spicy, too salty, not salty enough.
The best one I heard last time I was out to dinner: a wine glass that was filled too high. Who actually complains about the bartender’s heavy pour when you are drinking a $13 glass of shiraz?
But worse than all the whining over wine is when the bill hits the tablecloth. After listening to them deconstruct the entire meal like they were Joan Rivers critiquing Bret Michaels’ harem of ladies — uh, broads — on VH1’s Rock of Love, they tip the server like we just had a private meal cooked tableside by Wolfgang Puck. Thirty-five percent for a meal that practically made everyone at the table (except me) get a doggie bag they will conveniently leave on the way out is the final knife in my side.
Looks like I may be making reservations for a table for one more often than not after this hits the presses. But I’m not complaining.
Experienced a dreadful diner yourself? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.