ACCOUNTANT BY DAY

Saturday night my boyfriend and I went to Romano’s Macaroni Grill for dinner, over at 92nd and Metcalf. When we first entered the restaurant I saw this cheerful smiling man with the stupidest ever bleach blond fauxhawk sailing toward us and I thought, oh please god no don’t let him be our server. Five seconds later he was ushering us into a booth and he had printed his name, BENJAMIN, in large capitals on the butcher paper covering the table. I have a stuffed tiger named Benjamin and let me tell you, the tiger makes a better first impression.

“Sooooo, what can I start you off with tonight?” Benjamin asked in a chipper contralto. He was decently nice, actually, although it made me cringe to look at him. The restaurant had little bare bulbs strung all over, which at first I didn’t particularly care for but, but later I ordered a glass of wine and when he brought it over I noticed that the reflection of all those bulbs in my glass looked like a tiny glowing galaxy trapped there, which I liked. I had the chicken portabello, which was pretty good, and my boyfriend had these gross lobster ravioli that were cloyingly sweet and it made him sad. Overall, the restaurant was kind of funny, trying to be upscale but family too, with butcher paper on the tables, and one of those faux ceilings with all the ductwork exposed, that you see in places like Pizzeria Uno or wherever. It was sort of like a combination of Olive Garden and Bob Evans, two restaurants that I like a lot but don’t consider especially compatible. I liked it okay but I’d probably go to Olive Garden or Carrabba’s first.

Anyway, the important thing about my experience at Macaroni Grill is the conversation I overheard when my boyfriend went to the bathroom and two men were walking by on their way out. One of them was describing some incident to his friend, in which “we smoked a few doobs in the car before going to the engagement dinner, right? And then we were all packed in those three person booths, you know, and I was in the middle? And, she just starts giving me a handjob right there, and I was in the middle? So I’m next to my sister and across from my grandmother there, getting this handjob and she . . .” and I didn’t get to hear any more of the story.

I’m going to spend the rest of my life wondering whatever happened with this guy’s doobietastic handjob engagement dinner.