Legally Blind Date
Over the phone, Juliette, my blind date, suggests lunch at Bat Segundo's Haute Cuisine Emporium. I agree, even though I know one needs to take out a second mortgage just to get the Maitre'D to sneer in your general direction. I tell myself I need get out, socialize more, even if it turns out to be a terrible muddle.
The next night I ring the bell, and a creature (Juliette's mother? A failed cross-breeding experiment?) opens the door. I catch a glimpse of pink haircurlers, sequined bi-focals, black leather footwear and grease-stained purple polyester. The gray-blue smoke of hand-rolled cigarillos slithers up my nostrils - an unelusive, promiscuous, will of the wisp that barges down my lungs and makes itself uncomfortably at home.
Despite wearing a full-length, tie-dyed dress, Juliette bounds out the door and drags me off before I can take a closer look at her questionable genetic origins. I open the door to my newly stolen wheels. With all the grace of an arthritic rhino, she wedges her ample posterior into the bucket seat.
"Your mother wears Army boots?" Not the best way to start the evening, but to be honest I'm already practicing my "It's not you, it's me" speech.
"Ma gits great deals at the surplus store." She smiles and I see her family has never heard of the wonders of Fluoride.
"That's nice." Sheer force of will quells the hounds of snark I desire to unleash.
The valet catches the keys and we enter the marbled foyer. Tonight's Special is "Galleycat with Rice Wine Vinaigrette". A real deal at $87.00 a plate, but something tells me Juliette intends to chow down on the heftiest hunk of prime rib they serve. That she does, plus a $185.00 bottle of Chateau D'Ill Repute '67 and three desserts.
Lucky for her the platinum card isn't mine either.
I discover that Bat Segundo's Haute Cuisine Emporium serves the worst Filet de Terrapin on the Eastern seaboard. Honestly, how can anyone screw up cooking a turtle?
When I attempt to take her home, local troopers twig to the forged plates. I take a short cut to shake 'em. Bad idea. A parade is in progress. I dodge a small herd of promenading poodles and cream a Shriner. I subconsciously register the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd - most of whom become incontinent after I brake and send Chuckles flying off my hood in their direction. Juliette keeps making revolting sounds with her nose, but at least she isn't screaming.
I ditch the car and Juliette in a mall parking lot, beating some old bag to the last empty handicapped space. She brandished an unladylike finger. I point to my feet, "Chronic bunions." I dodge in the Mall entrance, out the back shipping doors and hop the first bus.
It must be my overstimulated imagination, but I swear I can hear Juliette's husky voice in the distance.
How can anyone screw up cooking a turtle?
Chateau d'ill repute.
Scoring to come (once I regain control of myself)