At our favorite restaurant, we have a favorite waiter. Jeff has been waiting on us for almost fifteen years; he knows our order by heart, so much so that when he sees us at the door, he puts in the order for our appetizer of french fries and brings them to us minutes after we are seated, piping hot and crunchy, fresh out of the oil. He told us about his latest home repair project, and we caught up on his partner’s health. “Are we still getting the gluten-free spinach and goat cheese pizza with pesto?” Yes. He puts in our order, and we hold hands over the table and talk about Van Gogh’s mental state; what would they call it today, bipolar, multiple personality, schizophrenia, manic depression, autism?
Jeff returns with our pizza, and we dig in. They got it perfect this time. They get it perfect every time, except that time they put way too much cheese and oil in the pesto.
“Are we doing the Mexicana shake tonight? Are you going to share it?” Yes. We both love this shake and want our own, but dairy makes my snoring worse, and Tom watches his sugar. So, we share a shake, like in the movies. It comes to the table with a massive dollop of fresh whipped cream. I can see the Mexican chocolate and the cinnamon granules suspended in the tall glass. Oh my God, it’s good.
We arrived at the restaurant this Saturday evening, and they told us Jeff had just left for the day. We look at each other, worried. They seat us in a booth, and a tall young man comes flying by, “I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Tom looks at me and tells me I need to order. When the waiter comes to the table, he asks if we are ready. I ordered the pizza and followed up by saying that we would like an order of fries for an appetizer. That wasn’t too bad. Fifteen minutes or so went by, and I asked about the fries. Oh yeah. He returns with the fries, and we start eating them when he returns with the pizza. Tom says he noted that I ordered the fries after I ordered the pizza, and that’s why the fries didn’t come in the proper sequence. I have not had to order our food here in over five years! Everything took longer than usual, so I did not really want to order the shake, but it was our main treat for the week. So, we order a Mexicana shake with two straws.
We planned to stop at the bookstore down the Street before heading to the northside for an art exhibit reception. Tom is looking forward to buying some books. The waiter comes back with our shake and sets it on the table between us with a flourish. The two red straws with white paper wrappers on the tips stick out of the creamy goodness. Tom takes the first sip and pushes it across the table to me. I take a sip. After I swallow it, I feel a warm sensation in my mouth and taste a robust flavor. I look at Tom, “Does this have coffee in it?” I feel lightheaded. Tom says, “I think it’s alcohol”. In a milkshake? No way. We flagged down the waiter and asked him if alcohol could be in our shake. No, I don’t think so. “You can keep it; I will order you another one.” We don’t want it if it has alcohol. He takes it away and comes running back over. “Yes, it did have rum and coffee in it.” Tom and I look at each other, visibly upset. Thirty-two years, I have gone without alcohol passing through my lips. For Tom, it’s been forty-two.
What does it mean if we both had a sip of alcohol? I’m so pissed. We have consciously made decisions every day of our lives not to have alcohol. I feel woozy. It’s psychosomatic. My face is flushed. Am I drunk or angry? I’m angry. The waiter returned with our Mexicana shake. I could see the Mexican chocolate and cinnamon granules suspended in the tall glass. It looks almost identical to the shake with the rum. But it’s not; it’s our favorite shake. They should put an umbrella or something in the shakes with alcohol. We drink down our shake, and when we are done, I can barely feel the numbness of the alcohol left on my tongue. We pay the bill and
head out into the dark, chilly air on 57th Street.
