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The Imbroglios
I
A new Italian restaurant just opened downtown, and it’s supposed to be incredible. We plan ahead and make a reservation days in advance. Friday night, we walk over as the sun sets over the Rockies.
It’s an unarguably nice place. There are real candles and real flowers on the tables. Bread and butter infused with truffle oil, salads with arugula rather than romaine or — god forbid — iceberg.
Then the entrees come and they are, of course, phenomenal. Carbonara with pork belly for him, butternut squash and ricotta ravioli for me. We both carefully and surreptitiously try to mop up every last bit of sauce from our plates.
We get into a chicken-and-egg debate about something, and I put down my fork mid-bite in order to gesture and make a point. The waiter picks this moment to come by.
Seeing my wild gesticulations and close-to-empty plate, nothing but a single quarter-bite of ravioli and swirls in the sauce remains from my last attempts to get every last bit of flavor, he makes the not unreasonable assumption that I am done. So he reaches under my arm.
But I am not done. And I want that last bite. But I also want to make my point in this debate. So rather than interrupt myself to tell the waiter no, I grab the edge of my plate and we engage in a small game of tug-of-war. Finally, he gets the…
