This kids are off in Aaahhnold with their dad and friends this weekend, so it’s just me, Phil, and a pile-o-work until Sunday afternoon. By then my folks will be back from Tahoe (surprisingly, not all that far from Aaahhnold) and we’ll all get together for dinner here.
After I hit the wall at six last evening, Phil and I bolted for Santana Row to eat at our favorite Mexican restaurant. Mojitos, guacamole made to order tableside, scallops and potato pureé, carnitas, roasted chicken and vegetables. Mmmm. Pass the tortillas again.
Boy, did we need that night out. My work is winding up just as his is winding down (summer’s coming and he’s off for WEEKS and MONTHS), and it was high time for an evening of relaxation and trading insults. And barking at the waiter who tried on six separate occasions to take the plate with Phil’s Last Bite still on it. It was one-third of a scallop atop a bit of potato and sauce. It was driving me crazy. The waiter too. He made one last reach for it.
“Hey! Oh! Not done!”
“You’d better just leave it if you don’t want to pull back a stump. He’s saving it. Actually, I’m trying to buy it from him.”
When the check came Phil wrote a very nice note because on top of the excellent service, they’d moved our outside table closer to the heaters, dropped the wind screen, and replaced two sub-par Mojitos for us.
“What, are you writing him a love letter? Let me see that. ‘As always, Consuelo was fantastic.’ Who’s Consuelo?”
“I’m going to the Men’s room, and then we’re leaving.”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I thought I’d wait by the door… next to the bar… you know, in case there’s still time to pick someone up.”
“Okay, you go to the bar, I’ll go to the bathroom, and maybe I’ll get lucky.”