It was date night at our apartment last night. Just my wife and I would be going out. We secured a babysitter and did our usual thing of not making a reservation anywhere . We both asked each other what we wanted to eat and drew massive blanks. We weren't in the mood for anything. We have all reached that point where food becomes boring, exasperated by the monotony of most meal choices. We mainly eat to live. However when my wife and I do eventually agree on a type of cuisine, we want the food to be at least better than what each of us prepares at home. We do consider ourselves Foodies and so there is an attempt at times to live to eat.
We descended in the elevator still unsure of where we were going and discussed what seemed to be only those restaurants in our neighborhood that we used to frequent but have since shuttered their doors. It was a pretty pointless exercise. We were then standing outside our building in the freezing cold reminiscing about where we used to eat as my stomach began its usual 8pm rumblings reminding me of the purpose of tonight's activities.
We still hadn't moved from just outside the entrance to our building. I steered the conversation away from restaurants that were no longer open to those that were still in business and would welcome our hard earned dollars. We decided that we were going to walk to our eating habitat of choice. We agreed that the maximum number of blocks we would walk would not exceed seven either North nor South and three Avenues East or West. That narrowed the field down to about two hundred restaurants. That is the beauty of living in Manhattan. We really are spoiled for choice. It does have its disadvantages though especially for those incapable of making a decision. No hints there who I am referring to. I then suggested that we started walking and maybe a restaurant would appear that stood out amongst the masses. We had walked no further than two blocks when we stumbled across one of our favorites. It had slipped through the suggestion net.
We peered through the window and saw it was half empty. There were many free tables, so we ventured in ,feeling all jolly at having solved our dilemma. We were greeted by a hostess who asked us what time our reservation was and if it was a party of two and our name. I interrupted her to inform her that we did not have a reservation. Then the head shaking started. Not mine but hers. She looked down at her podium and then around the dining room and back to the podium. Then she took a glance at me and I smiled as best I could. I was about to open my mouth but I got hip slapped by the wife insinuating that it was best to say nothing at this juncture. She finally had finished her analysis and avoiding all eye contact, announced that they had nothing available for the next forty five minutes. My hands become uncontrollable as I wildly gestured towards the hoards of empty tables that remained unoccupied in front of me . My mouth must have been gaped open in astonishment for at least several seconds because my wife quickly rescued the situation by dragging me backwards out of the restaurant on my heels , before I could say anything offensive.
So there we were back on the streets of the Upper East Side , unmistakeably cold and now ravishingly hungry. I had had enough. I swiveled on my heels and with an outstretched arm , spun around projecting my pointer finger out into the vastness of Second Avenue. When I stopped rotating, my finger was fixated on a restaurant just off the main avenue slightly hidden on a side street. I announced to my wife that this was where we were eating. Indecision had let us down but randomness would step into its place and direct us to our evening's haunt.
We had never eaten there before. We didn't even know that it existed. No one had ever recommended it nor had they come back with constructive criticism. It was an unknown: A rare find among the notoriously picky crowd we chose to live with. So with no predetermined views, we walked inside. We were welcomed by a man who hadn't seen a comb in years and whose teeth ( in his mouth not his non existent comb) were so big that the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood suddenly sprang into my mind. I wanted to say " What big teeth you have Grandma," but I stopped myself in the nick of time. We were seated at a table near the door . It all seemed very pleasant with the exception of the very strong smell of citrus that reminded me of scented washing up detergent. We were handed our menus and I glanced at the appetizers and the entrees, most of which had something citrusy in them. " A hint of lemon, a lemon glaze, orange sauce, grapefruit segments, lemon pasta, ( what on earth was that?) , lemon coulis, citrus mash, orange and lemon flavors." My wife had not noticed the common theme and ordered a starter and a main without commenting about the smell or the overabundance of acidic fruit. I could not be so obliging.
" And you sir. What would you like?" The waiter calmly asked, pen and pad in hand eagerly awaiting my choices.
" Do you have anything without fruit? I have an allergy to all fruit."
My wife let out an " oh no not again." The waiter looked confused, took my menu and went down the items one by one repeating the word " no" over and over again.
" He doesn't have an allergy to fruit. He has a problem with people," my wife interjected, ruining my plan of attack.
I retreated quickly and ordered the lemon pasta and the Mediterranean sea bass in a citrus sauce. I didn't want either but had to order quickly to diffuse the angry stares from both my wife and the waiter who, for the rest of the evening took every opportunity to show his disgust at me through his facial expressions. The food arrived and was as expected very lemony. Even the wife noticed it. Everything was drenched in it. The lemon pasta was a plate of spaghetti with new improved Palmolive dish washing liquid poured over. Obviously the chef had ordered three hundred too many cases of lemons and had decided to make a vat of lemon sauce that accompanied each and every menu choice. The kitchen staff were unable to move, being knee deep in lemons and customers were subjected to this bitter fruit in all they digested. When I twiddled my spaghetti on my fork a bit of the sauce hit me in the eye and it started tearing uncontrollably because of all the acid. I couldn't take it any more. There were lemons everywhere. They were in the water glasses, on my plate, in a bowl on every table as decorative pieces, and I still couldn't see out of one eye.
In mid meal I asked my wife if we could go home. She agreed . She was all lemoned out too. The waiter asked me if everything was OK. I answered yes to avoid another confrontation. I already had lost an eye eating here. I didn't want any more injuries. He duly brought the check with a complimentary slice of lemon cake and two glasses of Limoncella. We didn't touch either and left after paying. I won't be having anything citrus for some time. I am now officially a lemonist!
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