It’s not too often that I am NOT the most obnoxious person sitting at the dinner table, but I daresay I was recently, even if only temporarily, trumped…
…and by a Brit! Not The Brit of course, the pillar of politeness that he is, but A Brit nonetheless. I should have known that if anyone were going to make me spray a Napa Valley syrah through my nasal passages, it would be this particular Brit.
The Storyteller, one of The Brit’s close childhood friends (and, incidentally, the brother of one of my favorite bloggers), blows through town every so often on the wings of a Virgin. While mounted on said Virgin, he offers up the best “First Class Cart Tart” service (as he endearingly refers to it) at approximately 30,000 ft. While dismounted, and safely at or around sea level, he offers some of the best gay company on this end of SF (and by “gay” I mean both “merry” and “homosexual”). All of this simply goes to say that his brief visits don’t go a single minute without an entertaining story of some sort, all of which result in deep belly laughter and, ultimately, syrah through the nose. I should just stop taking sips when he begins to speak, really.
At dinner the other night, we stuffed ourselves silly with divine food and drink, all the while disturbing the peace with our raucous laughter. As per usual. Our dinner plates were cleared, just in time to spare me the embarrassment I would have suffered had I given in to my urges to lick up the remnants of my seared scallops and potato puree. Then, our attentive waiter handed us the dessert menu.
“Room for dessert?” the waiter asked.
The Storyteller’s response: “I doubt I could even fit so much as a cock in my mouth right now, no matter how much I might want to!”
I’m assuming the restaurant has stain remover for their white tablecloths.