Friday I took a friend out for his birthday. We visited an expensive little Hawaiian style bar and grill, where we drank water out of porcelain glasses shaped like angry tikis and my drinks came with bright pink orchids floating on top. Our dinner was wonderful and fabulously seasoned, but the people watching was even better. We sat next to a local physician who dined with a large family and seemed to have a cellular phone permanently glued to his ear. He talked loudly, alternating between English and Spanish, and we rolled our eyes. After this continued for our entire meal, both of us wanted to leap across the table and beat him to death with his phone. We finally paid our bill and left, walking across the street to C*ld St*ne Cr**mery for dessert as the sun set.
I am a low maintenance kind of gal. I drink my coffee black, don't wear much in the way of expensive jewelry, and definitely don't need a lot of attention to thrive. I normally avoid places like C*ld St*ne. Why? The last thing ice cream should be is complicated or trendy. It's a child's dessert, right? Simple. No, this joint is where your ice cream is part of an "experience." It's placed on a frosty granite slab and beaten senseless with two metal spatulas. It's Benihana for ice cream. It's a violent Swedish massage for dairy products. It's...stupid, if you ask me. Heaven forbid you don't order a "mix in," pieces of cookies, candy, or brownies for instance, which are then violently folded into your food with the ridiculous metal implements of death they use. Personally, it makes my stomach turn. The less someone handles my food, the better, if you ask me.
We walked in, and I scanned the walls, which were covered with descriptions of complex specialty concoctions with cutesy names that failed to amuse me whatsoever. I would have had better luck reading Egyptian hieroglyphs by the light of a lantern. My head was already fuzzy with sickness, and I was less than patient to begin with. I finally gave up. The cocky teen with the carefully touseled hair behind the counter then asked what he could make us. I asked for a small butterscotch sundae. If there was a tinkling piano in the corner and we were standing in an old-timey saloon, it would have ceased playing at this point, and the patrons would have whirled around, hands on their holsters.
His eyes widened. He looked at me with slight disgust and parroted what I wanted, only in the form of a sarcastic question, turning his head in the direction of his unfortunate coworker for her reaction. She just smiled. I confirmed that was what I indeed wanted, and he smugly reported that they did not have butterscotch topping, looking quite satisfied with himself.
Touche, my good man. Touche.
He then took a snotty tone and asked me if I had ever visited their restaurant before, insinuating loudly that I was a rookie in this very sophisticated establishment. I explained that I had indeed, that I still wanted a sundae, and that caramel would be just fine. I looked up at my very tall, burly companion, and I saw his lips begin to blanch as they pressed together into a thin line before sinking out of sight into his goatee. The young man behind the counter refused to help me at this point, passing the buck to the girl who was unlucky enough to work at his side. She politely inquired if I wanted French vanilla ice cream, and I gave her my approval. She then sheepishly offered me whipped cream and nuts, and I declined. I told her she could put a cherry on it if she wanted, which she did.
This is why elderly people must feel as if the world has gone mad. I am sure of it. Are we all so bored that we need to be entertained while we order freaking dessert? Really. The sundae was delicious, however, and after my friend made a call the next day to report how I had been treated, I apparently have free ice cream coming. And rightly so. I will be sure to go to that particular restaurant and ask for Mark.
However, I refuse to let him touch what I order with his steely knives.