Ms. Squatlo and I like to eat out every now and then, just to give the leftovers a break, and because I can't stand for us to have money in our account. The worst things always seem to happen to me when I'm flush with cash, so I've made it a lifelong project to stay as broke as possible to avoid smirking the Hooey Gods who watch over my checking account balance.
Today we braved the second monsoon in as many weeks, hydroplaning along our little village's crowded boulevards to get to our favorite Italian bistro for lunch. We were seated in a booth near the bar (our favorite location, because the rest of the restaurant is horribly TV free, and when those meteorologists are going crazy with colorful maps detailing the approaching tornadoes we like to humor them by at least faking interest in whatever they're so excited about...) ignoring the menus on our table, because this is OUR restaurant and we already know exactly what we want.
Our waiter didn't bore us with the obligatory three minute litany of the daily specials, including the special sauce that would be drizzled over the salmon, should we choose to follow the restaurant manager's lead and order the one item he's foolishly overstocked. Three fewer minutes between us and our meal. Life's short, and we appreciate brevity in these situations.
But once we had our meals on the table and we no longer had to worry about a stray lightning bolt taking out the restaurant's supply of electricity during the preparation of our dinners, I relaxed enough to take note of the smooth jazz playing in the background. This is one of those places that probably uses the standard Smooth Jazz channel offered by Sirius radio, and for the most part it's pleasant background music for a meal. Any restaurant that doesn't subject me to the latest from Molly Montana (or whatever her is) gets a thumbs up in my book. And truth be told, I recognize several of the jazz cuts they play on that channel every time we eat there, because I have a lot of those tunes in my own collection. There's a place for smooth jazz. That place is called "the bedroom," but it's their restaurant and they can go for whatever atmosphere they want to keep us hungry.
Anyway, about halfway through the meal the restaurant manager paid our table one of those "wait-until-you-see-'em-both-put-forks-full-of-food-in-their-mouths" visits wherein he asked how everything tasted, knowing full well neither of us could do much more than chew and nod at that particular moment. I'm convinced these assholes go to restaurant manager classes just to learn the most inappropriate time to ask that question. But instead of waving him off like a dog-dick gnat at a picnic, I continued to chew and signaled for him to wait, I had something to say. He smiled and waited for me to swallow.
"Yes sir?" he asked, hopefully.
"I was wondering," I said, as I took a quick sip of tea, "could you change the music and play 'Free Bird'?"
The look on this guy's face was worth the price of the meal. He smiled politely, then noticed that I was obviously not serious, and broke out laughing. Apparently, 'Free Bird' isn't requested all that often in that restaurant. I think he said he'd see what he could do for us, but I'm not sure I understood him through the laughter and the sound of my lovely wife's eye rolling groan of "Oh Jesus Christ..."
A few minutes later the televisions lost their cable signal and the smooth jazz petered out on the restaurant's sound system. I told my wife he must be queuing up the Lynyrd Skynyrd, and sat back in anticipation. If I'd had a cigarette lighter I probably would have fired it up and held it over my head.
Life's too short not to mess with people when you get the chance...
