We took the granddaughters to Cru the other night, a new restaurant at the tip of the wharf, nestled in among the huge yachts. It’s both kid-friendly and very “in,” with a hopping bar, a huge common table, and a noise level slightly below a train wreck. But the food is terrific—I had some of the best shrimp, crab, and fluke I’ve ever had.
Two tables over sits a man dining by himself. At the intervening table, an attractive woman sits down clearly waiting for someone to arrive while she sips some wine. After a few minutes, she strikes up a conversation with the single diner, and soon they’re leaning toward each other to converse over the din, joking and smiling. “She’s flirting,” I observed to my wife. “Let’s see who she’s waiting for,” suggests Maria.
A few minutes after 7—either slightly late for 7 or very late for 6:30—the man who must be her husband arrives. He’s a wiry, dour guy, reminding me of Gus Fring on Breaking Bad. He sits, nods to the woman, and produces two cell phones. He first focuses on one, making notations, then the other, using the second to call someone while consulting the first. After his phone call, he nods again, and they both pick up their menus. The man has never smiled, never looked around, and after reading the menu, he makes another call.
My wife and I are looking at each other not talking either, but for a different reason. We both know what the other is thinking.
The woman should have ordered the ala carte cement blocks, wrapped this guy’s feet in them, and dumped him off the wharf. She could have then had dinner with the other man.
Life is too short for cheap wine, slow cars, and brutal relationships.
© Alan Weiss 2013