Some of you who follow my Twitter updates may have noticed a short tweet last night that went something like this: “Omg, rudest date ever.” Here’s the (longer than 140 characters) story:
Joe called last Saturday, after basically three months of silence. It’s cool, we didn’t have an exclusive relationship, goodness knows, but I tend to gravitate toward the “Hey, let’s take a break for a while, no hard feelings” line of breaking things off, rather than screen and ignore calls or emails which he seems to favor.
I like Joe. He’s fun to hang out with and go to football games and watch basketball games and Mike & Mike in the Morning. You know, buddy-style. And while I am, in his words, “damn sexy,” we have never had penetrative vaginal intercourse (Ew, sex ed.) I look good on his arm at parties and restaurants and I’m smarter than most women he knows, which is a big turn-on.
So, last Saturday I picked up the phone and he asked me to dinner on Monday, after he finished his hearing at the courthouse.
(Did I mention that I referred my sweet little brother to Joe, who is a hell of a divorce attorney?)
I met him at a bar downtown, we had a glass of wine and I admired his suit. I’ve never seen him in pants other than jeans, and never in dress shoes. Like, ever. He started telling me about the hearing, and how clueless my sister-in-law’s attorney was. I could tell he was in lawyer mode, and silently thanked the universe that I didn’t have to face him in court. Since this was a dinner date and I was starving, I suggested we finish our wine and go down the street for sushi. And that’s when the real trouble started.
Instead of sitting at the table to which we were shown, Joe scooped up the menus and moved over to a different table. I have no idea why; they were right next to each other. Then, when our server came to take our order, he wanted her to have the chef make half an order of the sashimi assortment because, as he said, “20 pieces of sashimi is too much food.”
For two people? Seriously? That’s 10 bites of food each.
I ordered a spicy tuna roll and he rolled his eyes.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You’re just going to fill up on rice. It’s a waste.”
“Even so, I would like the spicy tuna roll, please,” I said to the server.
Joe threw up his hands. Poor server walked away with our order and my apologetic look.
Soon the server was back. “Excuse me, I’m very sorry, but the chef cannot halve the sashimi plate.”
“It’s restaurant policy.”
Joe laughed menacingly, as if this server and the sushi chef had conspired against him and he was now prepared to make their lives a living hell, “Bring the menu back.” Then, “Give us the seven-piece tuna sashimi. And some more sake. Hot.”
No “please.” No nod of acknowledgment when things were presented, much less a “thank you,” which I attempted to deliver, embarrassed by his lack of etiquette. I fucking hate that.
So, dinner for two consisted of one seaweed salad, one spicy tuna roll and seven pieces of sashimi. What?
Midway through the salad, he mentioned something which gave me a chance to tell one of my famously funny sushi stories. Two sentences in, he corrected a detail about a James Bond movie, “It’s blahblahblah,” he shot. I replied, “Huh, really? I thought it was blahblahblah.”
“Listen, I’m the 007 expert here. It most certainly is blahblahblah; I’ll bet you a hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars.”
I sat there, stunned.
“Finish the story.”
“Just finish the damn story, Linnie.”
“I will not tell the story simply to finish the story. It’s not funny anymore.”
I took a bite of seaweed. The couple at a nearby table were looking over nervously. We sat in silence.
“Listen, you could have at least waited until I’d finished before you–”
“Shot you down?”
“–interrupted me and shot me down. I’m not opposing counsel.”
He apologized to me, but maintained his rudeness to our server for the remainder of dinner. I didn’t see the check, but I’m sure he didn’t tip her nearly enough for having to put up with him and his pompous, condescending attitude.
We walked out, and said goodbye on the corner. His car was at one end of the street, and mine was at the other, “I’ve missed you, baby, we should see each other again soon.”
I smiled wanly, “Thanks for dinner, Joe.”
I waited for the light while he walked to his car. I turned on my heel and walked back into the restaurant. The hostess held up my umbrella, “Back for this?”
“Oh, I forgot about that! Thanks, but I actually wondered if you could please give this to our server with my apologies.”
I handed her a ten dollar bill and went home hungry.