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 Being a food critic is a highly overrated profession; granted, you get to eat in the fanciest of places, but it involves a lot of waiting and pondering. It was in such a situation that I found myself sitting in one of the most posh restaurants in town, ‘The Blue Dragon’ awaiting my next opportunity to express my cynicism and wit about how and why particular dish, or service hadn’t satisfied my taste and to get a good deal of appreciation and money for it. ‘Food takes long to arrive’ I jotted down in my little notebook and I felt the entire staff take in a collective breath and widen their eyes. One of the waiters tripped and almost split a bottle of expensive-looking red wine on a young gentleman sitting a few tables across me in the corner of the room.

Something about that man stood out and I hid my curiosity behind a cynical smile as I raised my eyes to look at him. The bottle would have spilt had he not reacted faster and grabbed it halfway through its fateful fall. My phone beeped unexpectedly and I found a message from my wife, ‘Dana is out with friends tonight, I suppose I’ll be eating alone’. Again, a message to which it wasn’t particularly easy to find an answer and yet I had to forage through my mental drawers to obtain one as hard experience had taught me never to ignore her messages. As I leafed through my short supply of socially correct responses for my wife, my attention was drawn once again to the young man by the corner as he whispered something into the ear of the waiter who had almost caused the unfortunate demise of a bottle of wine and handed him a ring. He motioned with his hand, to put it in a glass as he slipped him a $5 dollar bill and sent him back inside lest someone notice.

‘How very cliché’, I thought to myself, ‘So old and overused, and yet this demeaning sort of proposal does its job as it doesn’t fail to produce fat tears and squeals of exaggerated and over-practiced surprise from the ladies.’ The young man looked about 25 and was wearing a black suit with a white shirt and black tie. His attire wasn’t particularly classy, or new for that matter but his astonishingly good looks made up for it. He would glance at the door then at his watch and then back at the door again. He picked up a spoon and looked at his reflection; ran his fingers through his sandy yellow hair and then looked at the door again.

I do not approve of youngsters these days –with the exception of my daughter of course whose only flaw is her complete disrespect for punctuality - I find them loud, boorish, perverse and extremely uncultured; this young man however, in his own, self conscious, nervous and childishly chivalrous manner somewhat amused me; pleased me I daresay. That was when my phone beeped for the second time and I realized I had been staring. A wave of great mortification washed over me as hastily looked down my impatient wife’s second message. Luckily for me, the waiter appeared before me at that very instant bearing not only the unfortunate dish that was to be dissected in every possible way that night, but a way to restore my confidence as a familiar air of superiority filled me. His face was contorted with tension and his brow was in dire need of mopping. I made him stand there just a moment longer than was necessary to increase my hold over him and the rest of the staff that cast what it felt were inconspicuous glances in my direction. I then allowed him to serve me and dropped a small suggestion that he might consider wiping the sweat off his face, as it was extremely unhygienic. I congratulated myself for having sent him red-faced, almost running to the kitchen, humiliated, and on the verge of tears. Content, I started my meal.

The food was better than average, far better and as I signed for the check, I began searching for anything that had been wrong during the night. Anything that could be criticized or mocked. I suddenly remembered the young man; he still sat there, seeming to be playing some sort of video game on his phone. He almost jumped from his seat when his phone rang and began blushing as he spoke to the soon-to-be-wife I assumed. He began frantically straightening his collar, redoing his hair and looking desperately at the door.

The door opened, and an elegantly dressed woman in her mid-forties walked in. I raised my eyebrows and stole a glance at the man. He had been in the process of getting up, but he let out a sigh of relief and sat down again. The woman strode across the room and joined a distinguished-looking man at the back. The door opened the second time and this time I looked at the man first; he straightened up, flashed the smile he had been practicing in the spoon and turned tolerably pink. Now, feeling a twinge of excitement, I looked to the door and saw Dana walking in nervously.

04/04/14