A Night Out in Canada

Last night I finally got to go out for the birthday dinner I missed on Monday while my leg was propped up with an ice pack on it. I’d never been to this well known seafood restaurant before. It was a nice place, nice atmosphere and the food was great. We purposely went out late to avoid the dinner rush and, hopefully, have a little breathing room, because it’s nicer to have intimate celebrations in places that aren’t overly crowded or noisy.

We got a nice table in the front corner of the restaurant. Only one of the tables next to us was occupied and it looked like those people would be leaving soon because they were having dessert. So far, so good. We started to settle in with the menus. A few minutes later the hostess sat a party of six – three older, obviously moneyed couples – at the table on the other side of us. The restaurant was pretty much empty, I don’t know why they have to seat everybody next to each other instead of spreading people out.

Moments later, my eyes started to water as the smell of some hideous perfume wafted to our table. The culprit turned out to be the woman in this party seated closest to us. Dyed hair (almost a bright red) perfectly coiffed, loads of makeup (probably a face-lift or two), fancy spectacles, flashy chunky jewelery, upscale clothing and a stank to kill a skunk. If you’ve ever seen Tracey Ulmann do her character Fern, the Jewish socialite from Long Island, on “Tracey Takes On” and can exaggerate her significantly in your mind, you’ll have a pretty good picture of my fellow diner.

I nearly gagged, I don’t know how her companions could stand the smell. I also don’t know what possesses people to assume that just because something smells good to them that everyone else will find it as pleasant, so they over-apply it. I had to get up and ask our waitress to move us to another table. Even then, it took a while for the rank smell to dissipate from our noses.

After dinner, we went down the street to this pub. We’d been there once two months ago to hear a band that we’ve sort of been following for the last two years. That night, Mel’s friend Alex had been with us. Not too long ago, Alex moved back to this area from California after a nasty break up with her (cheatin’ ass) girlfriend. For some reason or another, Alex hadn’t drank for about six months. She’d come to our house to pick something up and we talked her into going out with us to hear the band. Before we left she drank three beers. After we got to the pub she and Mel decided to drink their way down the row of taps behind the bar. So we parked ourselves at the bar, drank, argued over cigarettes (we do occaisionally smoke when drinking in bars), listened to the band and had a rousing good time. Alex and Mel had a really good time so it was a good thing I didn’t drink much that night. Besides the cider tap was empty. Of course, that didn’t stop me from complaining bitterly about it.

Apparently, we’d made quite an impression on the bartender during that single visit. He immediately recognized us, poured me a cider, asked where Alex was and whether we’d brought cigarettes. When we said no we hadn’t brought any, he pointed to the convenience store across the street. As for Alex, she informed Mel that she’d quit drinking again the day after she went out with us. He just shook his head when we told him that. (We take great delight in calling Alex a puss over this. She’s a real butch and hates that.) Too bad we were only staying for one drink last night… I think the kilt-wearing bartender would’ve treated us right since the place wasn’t so crowded this time.