Last night, I went out to dinner with my brother and father to this place called Gavens as a celebratory dinner. What with me graduating college and my brother graduating high school and all, it seemed like a good idea.
As with every big event, it’s only customary for familial clan to fork down as much meat as possible to survive that night’s hibernation, all the while remaining polite and refined. This is one of my family pet peeves. Amongst millions. I have a list. Someday, I’ll share.
My father, in an effort to civilize his otherwise unruly and apish sons, gives a lesson in etiquette at each and every meal. This poses a problem to me for two reasons. Firstly, if I’m a member of a family of apes, then I’m the only one in the bunch speaking in sign language while everyone else speaks in terms of poop and the velocity it can travel between the ass, hand and target.
Secondly, there’s nothing more frustrating to me than having to be corrected on what hand my fork is held in when I put the food to my mouth. What a waste of time it is to cut with the right, put down the knife, switch the fork from the left to the right, then eat. Both my hands are perfectly capable of politely feeding my mouth a morsel of food. I could understand my father’s dismay if my left hand had a tendency of waving the finger while stabbing other patrons with a fork full of steak. But oddly enough, I’m able to control that urge and put the food properly into my mouth with the most graceful of movements.
I’m a fucking ballerina at the table.
Also, please don’t tell me I have too much aftershave on me for a restaurant. That’s not aftershave. It’s deodorant. My deodorant may have an odor, yes. And it may [shock and alarm!] smell good to those very close to me. Yet I have a hard time believing that my odor is so overpowering that the people at the next table would have to ask Waiter? Could we be moved to a different table? This young man’s scent is interfering with my delicate taste buds. And even if it were, it’s AXE deodorant. Commercially speaking, I should be getting a bj under the table because of this stuff.
Other than the lessons in fine dining, everything went well. The food was good. The conversation was good. And the fact that I can now drink and subdue my otherwise over zealous diner that lives inside of me is very good.
May 25, 2006 at 7:01 am
I’m a fucking ballerina at the table
i like that one haha
May 25, 2006 at 5:27 pm
There’s a proper amount of aftershave for a restaurant? Is this amount in Emily Post someplace? I didn’t get the memo.
May 27, 2006 at 5:24 am
I’m right-handed and cut with my left hand, as well. My grandmother (Dad’s side) once told me that I was sinning by giving in to the Devil’s temptation to use my left hand in his work rather than God’s hand, which I’m assuming is the right hand. She’s a little…ok, crazy religious.
May 27, 2006 at 8:16 am
And you didn’t say, “Emily Post says it’s RUDE to comment on other adult’s manners or personal state at the table!”
My, you are well mannered. And you didn’t ask your Dad, “Hey, which hand do I hold the fork in when I stab you? Left or right? And which fork do I use? Just wondering….”