Free steak for the free-spirited

The other night, I took my wife out for her birthday. It was a very special occasion, because we get so few opportunities to go out for a nice dinner. We went to her favorite restaurant, which is a very expensive steak place with all of the entrapments of fine dining. The restaurant featured a well-attired wait staff who could recite the specials as if they were reading from a teleprompter and help you to make informed choices about the best wine to compliment your meal.

Though I’m not an uppity fellow, good service is a luxury I do enjoy. Actually, I don’t think it’s good service as much as it is that I enjoy seeing anyone take a time-honored charade seriously. I know very well that the waiters in these places are just regular guys like everyone else, but at night they assume the role of passionate servers. It’s a lot like going to the theatre.

We arrived earlier than our reservation time, but they seated us immediately since we had arrived before the evening rush. We exchanged pleasantries with the “cast” and ordered steaks. The meal was going very well. The room was quieter than I expected for a Friday night, which added to the experience. Our waiter returned to our table regularly to ask if we needed anything else. He refilled my Pellegrino several times without my even asking.

Near the end of the main course, I was involved in an interesting discussion with my wife when a shifty-looking character in a slick suit approached our table. In the dim light of the dining room, I could tell that his hair had the “wet look.” He leaned on an empty chair next to me and said, “Good evening, ladies!”

I looked over at the man, whose face immediately sunk. He was clearly mortified and delivered an apology that reflected more mortification than regret.

I’ve been through this several times in my life. Women, hairdressers mostly, often compliment me on how beautiful my hair is. It’s odd, but I’m always polite. I never take offense. I know as well as my wife does that I don’t look like a woman. I don’t dress like a woman, nor do I conduct myself as such. I often wonder about people careless enough to say “ladies.” I think they like the idea of saying “ladies.” They like the sound of it. It helps with the act. Theatre has a rhythm. Over the years, easily a dozen waiters have made the same mistake, looking only at my hair and continuing with the charade only to be shocked when I look at them. I’ve learned to play it well, because handled correctly, you become the boss. I’ve gotten free deserts a number of times. But that’s when it happens in a diner. It never happened to me in an expensive place. This was going to be good. I immediately assumed my reserved inquisitive tone. This is the one that conveys more curiosity than emotional reaction. Perhaps that what makes it so unnerving. Maybe I’ll never know.

“Excuse me, kind sir, but have you ever seen a woman with shoulders like mine?” (They are quite broad.)

The slippery guy tittered nervously, toying with the idea of digging himself in deeper by further abandoning his “role” and claiming that some of the women that come in this place…

“How about a woman with this much hair on her arms?”

The apologies started again. He was starting to lose his composure. It occurred to me that I still had more to do. He had unmistakably and irrevocably broken the “fourth wall” in this little piece of theatre, but now I could refuse to drop my role and carry on. This person had not identified himself and wore no name tag. It was like a game of chess in which he had inadvertently left a clear path to his queen.

“And who are you, exactly?” I asked. I was curious, but not irate. After all, wasn’t I just having an expensive dinner with my wife when I was disturbed by this oafish stranger?

The face of the man sank ever further and he almost mumbled. “I’m the manager…” and trailed off.

More apologies came and he soon skulked away.

My wife was entertained, but pensive. I told her that the incubation period had begun. Right about then, they were regrouping, trying to figure out how to repair the apparent damage. I told her that we could almost certainly parlay this into free desert. Our waiter returned with the desert menu and he apologized for his boss again. We ordered and then my wife noticed that a hostess had strolled by our table, looked at her and then jotted something down. She figured it was the table number. The waiter brought desert and informed us that the desert would be on the house. Nice.

Later, I asked for the check. When the waiter returned with the check, he informed us that our steaks would also be complimentary. Incredible. He apologized for the “confusion.” I examined the check. The bill had come to slightly over $150. With all of the comps, which included $80 worth of steak, the total bill was $67 and change.

It was good for us, what with Christmas and all. We really needed the price break. Everything your mother told you about your long hair was actually untrue. If you are free-spirited, you could even get free steak. Just keep your mouth shut. The less you say, the more they think you’re about to boil over. It’s a wonderful piece of theatre, if you’re into that sort of thing.