I had a wonderful weekend. And not just because it was my birthday. Though that was nice too.
As I mentioned a couple days ago, my outlaws were here visiting for a few days. They left Sunday morning, just as Amy’s dad was getting over the flu. I’m thinking now that was very good timing. On Saturday, with Pops experiencing a little too much gastronomic uncertainty to accompany us, Amy and her mom took me out for a birthday dinner. Our son tagged along too, of course.
When we were seated in the restaurant (there was a brand new Keg that opened up near us, and I’ll never say ‘no’ to a good steak), Amy and her mom took the bench on the inside of the table, and we menfolk sat in the chairs on the outside; Declan in his high chair and sporting a festive red and white wool sweater. Amy mentioned that she felt a little underdressed. We were all sporting fairly standard denim and sweater attire, with most of the rest of the patrons in slacks and shirts. Oh well, I was there for meat, so didn’t much care.
About ten minutes after we were seated, another couple took a table near to us, right by the fireplace. The man looked to be a stereotypical ‘biker dude’. Jeans, denim shirt, leather vest, long, lanky salt’n’pepper mullet, moustache, and a similarly dressed female companion. (Sans moustache.) Suddenly, we didn’t feel so underdressed.
As my son’s seating companion, it fell to me to ensure that he was placated with Arrowroot cookies, his small tupperware container of cheerios, various table-top toys and, if necessary, his bottle. At only seven months, he was a perfect tableside diner, his worst offense being a penchant to fling most of his cheerios onto to floor rather than into his mouth. Though to be fair, I attributed this mostly to his inability to handle such small items with anything approaching dexterity. Coming to his aid, I would balance one on the tip of my finger and he would dutifully loom in with mouth agape, chomp, and render the ring into a palatable paste.
As with most public outings, our son drew attention from the nearby diners, inevitably lured into his cuteness sphere of influence, whose event horizon is continually widening at an exponential rate and entrapping more and more willing victims. I would occasionally lower my head to his, whispering precautions into his ear not to become swept up in his burgeoning fame, as it would not last. Well OK, perhaps I wasn’t really saying that so much as pointing out the people who thought he was just so gosh-darned cute.
Our own meals arrived and Amy made sure to tell the waiter that it was my birthday. We shared a half-litre of wine and Mom-in-law felt well enough to have some salad and french onion soup.
As Bob, the aforementioned waiter, was clearing our plates and presenting me with a surprise complementary slice of coffee-ice-cream-with-Oreo-crust-drizzled-with-chocolate-sauce deliciousness, a strange waitress poked her head over my shoulder to draw my attention.
“Excuse me sir, but are you driving tonight?”
“Umm, not necessarily, why do you ask?” (Faced with an unknown decision, I like to be as noncommittal as possible.)
“Well, the gentleman at the table behind you and to your right has been watching you and your son and would like to offer to buy you a drink for being such a good dad.”
HUH?! Needless to say, with my mind drawn from its previous focus of chocolate and ice cream, I was in the process of being moderately flummoxed. Amy came to my rescue: “I can drive back home, sweetie.”
Girded with this knowledge, I replied confidently, “I’ll never say ‘no’ to a rye and coke, thanks.” (Which is true; I’ve never said no to a rye and coke. Sometimes to my later chagrin.)
With me sporting a confused but pleased smile, Declan and I trundled over to the table behind us to thank the man who made such an unexpected and kind offer. He was dressed in denim jeans and shirt, a black leather vest, and had a shoulder-length biker mullet of lanky salt’n’pepper hair. I hunkered down beside his table with my boy on my knee and expressed my surprised thanks for his kind gesture. He responded that he was a father himself and appreciated seeing the level of interaction demonstrated between me and my son. We wished each other a merry Christmas and I returned to my table.
A few minutes later, the same waitress arrived with a double Crown on the rocks. You know it’s a good drink when the Coke is served separately in one o’ them fancy little flasks so you can add it to your rye to taste.
That was one of the best drinks I’ve had in a long time.
“You can say there’s no such thing as Santa, but as for me and Grandpa, we believe.”
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