Tonight, LD and I were sans kids, so we went out to dinner at an Indian restaurant with 74 and Zaftig, showing conclusively that, pace this post, I am not and probably will never be "fucking done with those people." I guess it's good to have friends, even if there remains an undercurrent of uncertainty born of judgmental finger-wagging and melodrama.
The restaurant is one LD and I had been to once before (with Muffin and her husband, who seems to have no name on this blog; can that be right? I shall name him Big Red). It has very high quality food and polite, if unexceptional, service from the Indians who staff the place. This night, however, we were served by a rather haggard-looking Euro-American woman who looked as though she should be slinging hash at an truck stop. And she did her job as though she would be fired from an IHOP. She failed to bring me tea until the end of the meal and was very lackluster with other orders. But that is all minor and forgivable; her attitude was pretty terrible. She said, "I haven't drank any of those cocktails" when asked for a recommendation,and when 74 asked how her New Year was, she grumpily replied, "I had to work."
She brought the celebratory atmosphere down a few degrees, but we all tipped 20% or more anyway. I mean, we're not monsters.
Speaking of money, the bill was very high. We quartered it, and everyone's share was $50. LD and I shared an entree and I only had tea, so I think the restaurant charged us for the bottle of wine that Zaftig ordered and then sent back as unpalatable. 74 and Zaftig, being rather flush with cash, don't much notice a few hundred dollars here and there, but for us upper-middle-class working stiffs, these things add up, and we end up thinking about such situations hours later and then writing about them in our little anonymous, kvetching blogs.