When Is It OK To Take A Stranger's Leftovers Home?
Ah, never, Janelle. Let the other patrons eat in peace.
with Lorinda Birdwhistle
There's a reason they call it a doggie bag. Someone really needed to explain this to Janelle. The rationale behind the euphemism was obvious: doggie bags are a pretense for taking home the leftover fat from one’s 16-oz. ribeye steak, those last two tablespoons of mashed potatoes (with a bit more gravy, if you don’t mind), and please don’t bother with the peas. More often than not, these flavorful, fatty morsels of leftover food are not for the dog’s consumption. They are going to be eaten by the steak lover when said lover wakes up at 3:00 a.m. with heartburn. Guaranteed: the lover will need to wash these gristly memories of Mel’s Steakhouse down with a tall glass of Alka-Seltzer.
Now consider this – a person who requests doggie bags not only for their own leftovers, but also for the leftovers at all the adjoining tables (after obtaining the other guests’ permission, of course). The waiter tasked with bagging all this food wonders, “Does this lady fucking run a dog kennel?” Ah, no. Janelle does not run a kennel, and her 15-year-old dog, Bobo, is only allowed to eat Hill's Prescription Diet for Seniors. Janelle would benefit from switching over to Hill’s, too, as her excessive drinking and taste for pub grub seem to be contributing factors in the downward trajectory of her health.
I know, I know. These are stressful times, and I should really chill out. There are far worse things a person could do than tricking tourists into relinquishing their leftovers at a 2-star Michelin dining establishment. Am I right?
However, I truly believe it’s these sorts of stunts that contribute hugely to the stress all of us are feeling as of late — the actions of arrogant, needy, greedy people. I’m talking about everyone from our narcissistic politicians and corporate leaders to our ex-spouses and frenemies. Add to that the ego-trippers that join us for the occasional lunch, like Janelle. In fact, it’s people like Janelle, with their lousy manners, lack of self-awareness, and their manipulative, self-serving behavior, that are bringing our country down. These people seem to be everywhere these days, and they are why we are stuck in this ongoing political purgatory. Bad manners, bad behavior, just plain BAD everything. And after watching all that has gone down since last November (I know — it seems like an eternity, but Trump has only been knocking the china off the shelves for seven months), we have all discovered that greedy folks fall on both sides of the political spectrum, though it seems clear a much larger percentage of jackasses emanate from red states. Where the fuck are all the good guys and gals?
I don’t think Janelle is unique in her stupidity, which is why she sees nothing wrong with it. “Everyone does that,” she tells me, in reference to hitting people up for their leftovers. No, they don’t, Janelle, and no one bothers to call you out on this because #1, they’re shocked at your audacity, #2, they don’t want to draw attention to themselves when you blow up if they turn you down, and #3, they just want you to SHUT UP. They are not interested in hearing your life story and having you critique their food, nor do they want you, a complete stranger and purported connoisseur, advising them on wine selections. They just want to be left in peace. And if they choose a shitty bottle of wine, c’est la vie.
FYI, heavy drinkers suffer from serious taste impairment. Something to consider when your intoxicated friend imagines they are the food and wine expert in the room. Order your own food — whatever you’ve got a hankering for. And don’t share it, or you can expect a full critique of why you made a lousy choice.
So there we were, on that Thursday afternoon, sitting at a high top near the windows, with a view of the culinary garden and the entire dining area. Janelle had arranged for this very table, knowing it was the perfect perch from which to assess her prey, the people she would be hitting up for samples of their food and wine, and whom she would eventually get around to asking for their leftovers. To be clear, I knew NOTHING of this plan of hers. On previous occasions, when we dined out, she had not pulled these stunts. But now, emboldened by a double Manhattan, Janelle had the mistaken impression I would go along with whatever bullshit she doled out. My guess: Janelle has very few friends who are sober and, therefore, miscalculated what my response might be.
FYI, drinkers suffer from alcohol myopia, a condition that affects their ability to pay attention, causes distorted perception, and impairs their ability to make good decisions. But you already knew that.
Prior to getting seated for lunch, Janelle and I sat at the bar. In retrospect, I believe she intentionally had us arrive 45 minutes prior to our reservation so she could tank up. First thing she did was to grab two seats smack in the middle of the bar — no doubt so she could be the center of attention. She then proceeded to order her first drink, a Double Manhattan, and that’s when I ordered my first glass of Pellegrino with a splash of lime. On and on she went, introducing herself (and providing credentials — “you may know me as the blah, blah, blah”) to the bartender and the folks on either side of us. A right hand was then extended in all three directions, followed by vigorous, dominant handshakes, establishing a professional relationship whereby Janelle was the expert on all things fine spirits and wine.
Considering Janelle’s attire, which was not exactly the artsy vintage she’d been going for (more like 1990s wrinkle-resistant officewear), and her appearance generally, with her not-so-recently washed locks pulled back to resemble Joan Crawford as Blanche Hudson, plus her haphazard-looking makeup, which had clearly been difficult to apply precisely with shaky hands — in no way, shape, or form did Janelle appear professional. Not even as a professional walker-of-dogs. Aye yai yai. I got the feeling our bartender was assessing the situation and hoping someone would pick up Janelle’s tab, as she didn’t look like the type of person who could afford the top-shelf liquors she’d just ordered. Ironically, the woman was loaded. Go figure.
The next trick in Janelle’s foolkit: lively banter and funny-to-her stories. Janelle definitely had a blind spot when it came to her anecdotes. Once immersed in telling the tale (emboldened by Dutch courage), she failed to notice the people around her getting irritated or nodding off. If her “funny” story was hitting home, and not in a good way, Janelle was oblivious to the upset she was causing. There was no way to avert this situation, as Janelle was intent on finishing whatever she started, so confident was she that what she had to say was important, funny, or poignant. Ninety-five percent of the time, it was none of these things, only self-indulgent bullshit, poorly delivered. Aargh.
And Janelle was impervious to negative feedback, be it sighing, pinched expressions, rolling eyes, or people who just abruptly walked away. The whole place could have emptied out, and she’d still be droning on and on.
As we sat there, and Janelle had ascertained that everyone at the bar was a local, the conversation turned to specialty cocktails, namely those that had just been ordered — a Chocolate Old-Fashioned, a Vieux Carré, and a Chai Espresso Martini. All sounded fantastic, Janelle noted, before not-so-discreetly asking the bartender if she could sample some of the “free shots” at the bottom of the shakers. Armando reluctantly poured the dregs of the first two drinks into shot glasses and placed them in front of Janelle, who delicately sampled both, feigning deep consideration of their qualities. “Delicious,” she said, regarding the Chocolate Old-Fashioned, though she preferred Ballotin’s Chocolate Whiskey, which this obviously was not. “Noted,” said the bartender with a smirk on his face. My guess is that the 20-something Armando had heard more than his share of bullshit in his short career.
Once the customers to our right ordered their next round, Janelle boldly petitioned Armando for the “free shots” from their mixers, blunting her audacious request by simultaneously asking to see his wine-by-the-bottle menu. As if. As if she were considering wine options for lunch. “No problem,” said Armando, with a whiff of sarcasm and expanding his responses to two words now that he’d determined Janelle wasn’t homeless, just a really sloppy dresser.
Armando handed over the wine list, then poured the dregs of the next three cocktails into shot glasses and placed them in front of Janelle. Pretending to be engrossed in the wine menu, Janelle leisurely polished off her Double Manhattan, then rinsed her palate with a bit of sparkling water (mine), then indulged in the three quaffs of intoxicating libations while picking the bartender's brain on wine.
“Which pinot noirs are your bestsellers?” she queried. “Can you recommend a varietal that pairs well with carnitas?” And… “Are there any single-vineyard cabs amongst your offerings?” Blah, blah, blah. What a coincidence — all of the wines-by-the-bottle that captured Janelle’s interest also happened to be available by the glass. That meant open bottles of these wines sat behind the bar. What luck! Might she possibly taste a splash of this, or that? “But of course,” replied the ever-accommodating GenZ Armando, who had now expanded his responses to three words.
Eight “splashes” later, it was decided that the Gewürztraminer (the cheapest bottle on the entire list) would pair perfectly with the salty pork dish Janelle was considering. Off trotted Armando to the wine cellar to pull a chilled bottle of Fetzer Gewurz.
Now, a bit of math summing up Janelle’s before-lunch alcohol consumption:
• Eight 2-ounce “splashes” (i.e., tasting pours) = 16 ounces of wine
• 4 ounces of whiskey and 2 ounces of sweet vermouth = 6 ounces of hard liquor
• Five 1.5-ounce “free shot” cocktails = 5 oz. of hard liquor
I think the math speaks for itself. This is a lot of liquor. Especially for a woman who weighs 135 pounds. And all of this on an empty stomach — we’d not had lunch nor bar snacks. Janelle was toasted.
All of our pals at the bar looked genuinely relieved when the maître d’ tapped us on the shoulders to be seated for lunch. Did we want to go ahead and pay our bar tab or carry it over to our lunch bill? “To our lunch bill, of course,” Janelle directed. I was becoming curious as to how all of this would play out at the meal’s end. I had been clear, I would not be drinking any alcohol, and yet, it felt a little like Janelle was bullying me into splitting the Gewurztraminer. It was a 25.4 oz. bottle — she couldn’t drink the whole thing by herself, could she? No… I wasn’t falling for this. I knew exactly where this was headed; Janelle was angling to split everything right down the middle. Nope, nope, nope. I don’t drink. And I don’t pay for other people getting tanked. Not doing that. And besides, that stupid bottle of Gewurtz cost less than $10, even with the restaurant’s upcharge. All of this alcohol was on Janelle.
FYI, alcoholics frequently suffer from arrogance, entitlement, and grandiosity. Or should I say, their friends suffer from their arrogance, entitlement, and grandiosity? And yes, these characteristics are a façade for the real story: the deep-seated feelings of shame and inadequacy — both conditions that would benefit from a therapist’s help rather than a bottle of booze. It is the alcoholic’s fragility that leads to their self-absorption and lack of empathy, and in their arrogance, they imagine themselves with the superhuman power to consume alcohol without consequence. Lol.
After the scene Janelle had made for the last hour at the bar, everyone was averting their eyes and giving that look of “please, please don’t talk to me.” And I’m not just talking about the other customers — this look of dread had spread to the waitstaff and bartender. Yet all of this unease went blissfully unnoticed by my intoxicated companion.
So, here’s how the BRUTAL lunch with Janelle went down. You need to hear every gory detail. Not sure why, except I need to get this off my chest or I’m going to explode.
Let me start by saying this: that Thursday’s lunch was even worse than the time my dad took the entire family to Hooters. For Easter. And yes, that event included both of my kids, who, at the time, were in middle school and had not yet had sex ed. My son — so many questions for Grandpa. “Isn’t that cringe? You can see that lady’s butt," he blurted out within earshot of our scantily clad waitress. In addition to my dad trying to explain the “facts” of life to my son at this family dinner, Grandpa’s roaming eyes were making my mother’s blood pressure spike, causing her to use profanity when placing her order (a bit shocking from a woman who attends Mass twice a week and wears a devotional scapular). “I’ll have the fucking chicken fingers, bitch,” were her exact words, I believe.
I mean, really, the waitresses at Hooters must anticipate this sort of abusive behavior from the wives, what with the sexually provocative outfits they wear when handing out the children’s menus. Our waitress, Tiffany, did not seem at all shocked at hearing these words pass through my devout Catholic mother’s lips. Instead of being offended, she responded politely with a “thank you, ma’am,” and a sweet smile. Of course, my mother would have preferred an apology for Tiffany’s having dressed like a floozie, but then you can’t always get what you want (🎶), can you? Hell, Ed certainly wouldn’t be (getting what he wants, that is), as he can’t even get it up.
Yet, somehow, this lunch with Janelle ranked even higher on the humiliation scale than that Hooters hootenanny, in part because we were dining at a really posh establishment — Le Manoir de Velours, a spot popular with tourists and locals alike. While bad manners (and groping the staff) were the norm at Hooters, this was not the case at Le Manoir. People were expected to be polite. This was fine dining, and the focus was to be on the food, not tits and asses.
Back to the story at hand… I think we’ve established that Janelle was on a mission to get free alcoholic beverages, but little did I know she was hellbent on getting food freebies as well.
After we were shown to our seats at a two-person table on the north end of the dining room, Janelle hung her purse on the chair, then moved to introduce herself to everyone at the adjacent tables — first the couple from Idaho, then the eight people at the communal table, and finally a group of sorority sisters trying to enjoy their reunion at a 6-top round. That’s 16 people, all told — Janelle seemed satisfied that was a large enough audience. But the guests, all of whom were tourists… they seemed confused. Was Janelle the restaurant’s sommelier or a manager? She was neither, she admitted, but she was, however, a highly regarded wine critic — back in the 1990s, that is. And, she pointed out, she was considerably more knowledgeable than the restaurant staff on gourmet food and the region’s wines. She had been best buds with Patricia Gallagher, she boasted — “You know, the lady responsible for the Paris Tasting.” “Whatever that is,” was the expression on the faces of the Millennials at the great table.
And then there was the waitstaff, who were completely bewildered. They’d not been given a heads-up that a group dining experience was taking place, one with a speaker. Who exactly was this person giving a lecture on wine and making food suggestions from Manoir’s menu? Unsure of the protocol for this mixed gathering, the staff went about their jobs as usual, gingerly tiptoeing around Janelle, discreetly taking orders, refilling water glasses, and delivering food to the tables.
Janelle’s modus operandi was becoming clear to me, especially after witnessing her shameless shenanigans at the bar. In making food suggestions, Janelle was basically encouraging these patrons to order her favorite appetizers and entrées. Ditto for the wines. And she was recommending multiple courses, even though this was lunch: “You’re only in wine country once; you need to experience the best the region has to offer,” she said. Of course, the waitstaff were not going to interject to disagree. As the tabs at each table multiplied, so did their gratuities
The connection that most affected me that afternoon was the one Janelle made with a couple from Idaho, the husband specifically, whose two-top table was less than three feet from ours. The wife shared banquette seating on the east wall with Janelle, while the husband and I sat across from them on bistro chairs. This gave Janelle a clear view of the handsome husband, Arthur; my view was of his wife, Arlene, who, by the way, was equally good-looking, in my opinion. As we would soon find out, they were celebrating their 35th wedding anniversary.
Before we’d even had the chance to explore the menu and get the specials of the day from our server, Janelle struck up a conversation with Arthur, who she noticed had been considering what to order in the way of appetizers. “Might I make some suggestions?” asked Janelle. “This is one of my favorite haunts and I’ve had nearly everything on the menu.” Arthur shot a glance at his wife, who shrugged her shoulders, then sheepishly grinned at me. Turning his attention to Janelle, Arthur responded, “Why sure. What do you recommend?”
Janelle then gave them a lengthy rundown of the most popular items on the menu and suggested her favorite appetizers were the onion rings and Dungeness crab cakes. She and Arthur then discussed the restaurant’s various entrées, working their way through the whole list, without, I might add, seeking any input from Arlene or me. “I was thinking of ordering both the smoked duck and grilled hanger steak for our table, maybe starting off with the calamari,” Janelle noted. Was she ordering for me? What the hell. I might as well have been invisible, so engrossed in conversation and decision-making were Janelle and Arthur. Janelle had charisma, I have to give her that, and she used it to convince Arthur to order all of her favorite foods.
As they went about their food fantasy, Arthur and Janelle seemed oblivious to Arlene’s distress, but that didn’t slip past me, as I could see the expressions on her face. Arlene was seated diagonally from me, and when our eyes met (no, not in the romantic sense), I could see there was an understanding — we were the outsiders in this conversation. Quickly, we established a sort of spy code through microexpressions and the clearing of our throats. Arlene’s first message came across loud and clear — she was pissed. I concurred with her sentiment by rolling my eyes. The general consensus: we were both tired of the bullshit Janelle was doling out. Arthur, on the other hand, was eating it up. Pathetic.
A perceptive person might have noticed Arlene’s initial displeasure, even though she was being guarded and polite, but as the conversation between her husband and Janelle grew more animated (and flirtatious), Arlene dropped the pretense of considered respect. “I’m not interested in ordering the smothered pork chop, nor the baby back ribs you seem set on,” she snapped. “Art, you know I don’t eat red meat.” Worried they would disappoint Janelle if they didn’t take her suggestions, Arthur shook his head and cast his gaze downward, mumbling something about giving her recommendations a try, despite he and his wife’s usual rules and dietary restrictions. I mean, why not? They were on vacation, celebrating their anniversary, and Janelle was a famous food and wine critic. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, no? Blah, blah, blah.
Though Le Manoir was an excellent restaurant, my feeling: Arthur was overstating its importance, especially in the context of their “lifetime.” I’m guessing Arlene probably put the birth of her two children higher on her list of peak experiences than Manoir’s pork chops. Janelle had no children, so it could be this particular lunch was the high point in her life. Who knows. Arthur’s groveling did nothing to improve Arlene’s demeanor. He was stoking the fire rather than putting it out. Arlene was onto Janelle.
When our waiter returned to take the orders for both of our tables, Arthur chose to ignore his wife, confidently ordering everything Janelle had suggested: “We’ll take the onion rings and crab cakes as starters, and would then like the ribs and the pork chop as our main courses.” This was the final straw for Arlene — it was all she could do to keep from pounding her fist on the table or punching Arthur in the face. What an asshole. And there was Janelle, sitting there smugly like the Cheshire cat, quietly chuckling. Arlene blurted out: “Art! What do you think you’re doing, ordering for me?” Turning to the waiter, she insisted he please swap out the ribs for the seafood tostada and a Little Gem Caesar. “Thank you,” she said curtly. Arthur at least had the intelligence to let this go. If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.
Arthur, now thoroughly emasculated, avoided making eye contact with the two women sitting across from him — his wife and Janelle, both of whom wore dark expressions. Twisting in her seat to address Arlene directly for the first time, Janelle said coldly, “So, so sorry. I didn’t mean to order for you, but I do have to say, you’re making a huge mistake in ordering the tostada.” “Well, it’s my mistake to make,” Arlene volleyed, refusing to make eye contact with Janelle, “I prefer something lighter and healthier.” Arlene let out an exasperated exhale, then picked up her glass of sauvignon blanc, drained it, and motioned for the waiter to bring her another. Then, overwhelmed by the stupidity of it all, she turned her full attention to her iPhone, mentally blocking out the rest of the world, and that included us. Smart move, Arlene. I was tempted to do the same.
Even from across the room, our waiter could sense the tension building at our two tables. Without hesitation, he came over to resolve anything he could on his end. Are you ready to place our orders, he wondered, now directing his attention to me and Janelle. Janelle looked up from her menu and glared at me defiantly. She was not going to relinquish her position as alpha dog without a fight. She could see clearly that I was aligning myself with Arthur’s wife, whatever her name was, and she wasn’t having it.
Based on seniority (yes, she was the oldest of the two of us, something she was normally reluctant to admit), Janelle pulled rank and ordered first — she’d like the rabbit cacciatore with creamy polenta. She then added, “I’m hoping my friend will consider doing the roadhouse meatloaf. I understand it’s one of your best dishes.” “That it is ma’am,” our waiter offered, hoping to bring down the temperature in the room. “Well, that’s not what I’m having,” I responded.
Glancing over the menu once more, I considered which items Janelle would hate — basically anything with vegetables. And so it was settled. I would have the grilled avocado tacos with gazpacho as a starter. No meat. Janelle wrinkled her nose and frowned: “Too bad these aren’t things we can share.” I shot a glance at Arlene, who’d been eavesdropping. She was chuckling under her breath.
Janelle then asked our waiter to uncork the Gewürztraminer, which was chilling in the wine stand next to our table. Could he pour both of us a glass? “Not a problem,” he replied. I immediately interjected: “Ah, Janelle, perhaps you missed this over the years: I don’t drink. At all. Ever.” It was now Janelle’s turn to roll her eyes. She responded with: “OK. I understand – you want to be difficult. I’m positive I’ve seen you drink in the past,” she said with her best gaslighting grin, which looked oddly evil because her lipstick was askew. “Who doesn’t enjoy a bit of wine, especially with food of this caliber? If I’d known you weren’t drinking, I certainly wouldn’t have ordered a full bottle, nor would I have brought you here.”
That was rich… her bringing me here?! This whole excursion — my doing! And I drove. All of this: totally insulting. And stupid.
Whatever. Janelle was already three sheets to the wind, and she had an entire bottle of Gewürztraminer to put away before lunch was over. As she always reminded me, white wines don’t keep once they’re opened, so you might as well polish off the bottle. More dogma from the alcoholic’s bible.
In her inebriated state, Janelle probably did believe she’d planned our lunch. This much I can say, she most certainly would not be driving us home.
Harry, our waiter, smiled gently, opened the bottle, then provided Janelle first with a splash (to ascertain drinkability), then with a generous pour. As is customary, Harry removed my unneeded wine glass from the table, and as he did so, Janelle made her final plea — an attempt to be relevant — “Hang tight, Harry! Ah, Lorinda… are you sure you won’t want some wine later?” To this, I didn’t even bother to respond. I had made myself abundantly clear: I. Don’t. Drink. EVER. What is it with alcoholics? They can’t stand drinking alone? Fuck.
Needless to say, things were getting testy between me and Janelle — you could cut the tension with a serrated steak knife. Harry gingerly backed away from the table, then turned on his heel and made a beeline for the kitchen.
Everyone’s food had been ordered, and battle lines drawn. There were those who would be doing the six-mile hike in the late afternoon, and then there were those who would be cached out on the couch, air conditioning blasting, writhing in agony from overeating greasy food.
But Janelle, she was not to be deterred. No way, no how. She was going to do whatever she wanted, regardless of whether she had my or Arlene’s approval. Arlene and I, in turn, were going to eat our heart-healthy lunches, and neither of us was going to share, not that Janelle or Arthur would be interested in tasting our seafood and plant-based entrées and salads. Fuck them.
And shortly thereafter, out came our first courses — lots of fried shit: calamari at our table, fried onions and crab cakes on Arlene and Arthur’s table. My eyes met Arlene’s — we were not going to touch any of this toxic waste. Just the smell of it was making me break out. But there was Janelle, gobbling down big clumps of calamari dipped in aioli between gulps of Gewürtz. Arthur seemed to be struggling with his huge pile of fried onions and the crab cakes. He picked away unenthusiastically at both between sips of his overwhelmingly robust Caymus Cabernet Sauvignon, another recommendation from Janelle. Sadly, he’d ordered the bottle, and it was unlikely he could put away more than one glass. Arthur was coming to the realization that all this heavy food and rich wine — it was a bit much for midday in August. Arlene was failing miserably at hiding her disgust, but she was content to sip on her second glass of wine, a nice Pinot Grigio from the Carneros District. And she didn’t touch the appetizers, nor did she want a sip of Arthur’s cab. No, thank you.
Janelle, sensing the growing resentment at the table next to ours, redirected everyone’s attention by taking up her previous conversation with Arthur. Did he like the food so far? And the wine? Would anyone like to try the calamari? Janelle, catching Arthur’s eye, inquired about his onion rings: “Wow! I forgot how generous the portions are here — might I try a few of your onion rings?” “But of course,” chirped Arthur enthusiastically, hoping that having less waste would quell Arlene’s upset about his overindulging on the appetizers.
Janelle passed her bread plate to Arthur, who piled the onions on, high and wide. Then coyly, almost in a whisper, she asked: “Would it be too much to ask for a bite of your crab cakes? I mean, clearly Arlene doesn’t have a taste for them.” Arlene winced. Janelle was becoming too familiar; she was not their friend. Neither she or Arthur had shoved their tables together and suggested they break bread. What the fuck. Catching a whiff of the hatred emanating from Arlene, Janelle flashed a quick, transactional smile in her direction, thanking her for “sharing their bounty.” Janelle’s words. Ugh.
Arthur, eager to break the building tension, offered Janelle an entire crab cake, tucking it into the massive pile of onion rings already on her plate.
Then it was on to the second course. Before it could be set on the table, however, all those first-course leftovers would need boxes, and Janelle wondered out loud whether our friends would be taking leftovers back to their hotel. Did they have a refrigerator in their room? Arlene shook her head. No, there was no refrigerator, and they had dinner plans, as well, so sadly, all of this food was going to waste. This was the signal Janelle had been waiting for. “Well, if you don’t want the leftovers, might I take them home? That would be a real treat for a single lady.” But of course, she could have all those leftovers, suggested Arthur — what would they do with them? And so, Arthur asked our back waiter to box everything, and to “please give all of this to my friend, Janelle,” gesturing in her direction. With a quick wink, our waiter whisked everything back to the kitchen for boxing, including the bread, olive oil, and butter.
Harry, our head waiter, then began delivering entrées to both tables — rich, fragrant meat dishes for Arthur and Janelle, colorful vegan and seafood fare for me and Arlene. We dug in.
Arlene and I were starving, as all we’d eaten thus far was bread and olive oil. Before Janelle had even finished chewing the first bite of her succulent rabbit cacciatore, she became fixated on Arthur’s massive pork chop. “I forgot how incredible those grilled pork chops are. Seeing yours makes me wish I’d ordered that instead,” she said, feigning disappointment about her own order. “Is that as good as it looks?” she queried. Arthur, who’d not yet had the opportunity to taste his food, said, “I’ll let you know!” He cut himself a large bite and dipped it in the gravy. “Oh! This is fantastic — easily the best chop I’ve ever eaten,” he said, “Would you like to try it?” But of course, Janelle wanted to try it. Duh. She handed Arthur her now-empty bread plate, as well as her fork and steak knife. Arthur happily carved off a big chunk of the meat. “Might I also try a bit of your sauce au jus de viande?” she giggled. By the time Art was done, Janelle had a mini version of his entire meal. No one was surprised when Arthur had no interest in reciprocating with a taste of Janelle’s rabbit. Not everyone likes to eat bunnies.
And so the meal continued, with the dessert course rounding things out. To no one’s surprise, Janelle thought everyone should order different desserts and share them. I looked at Arlene, and she at me, and we immediately hatched a plan through mental telepathy. I ordered the honeyed Greek yogurt with fresh berries, and she ordered the vegan chocolate mousse. More nose-wrinkling from the peanut gallery. Perfect.
Janelle, of course, ordered the mile-high meringue lemon tart and asked Arthur to order the molten chocolate cake. How they could eat either dessert after putting away all that fried food and fatty meat was beyond me. I kind of wished I’d brushed up on my CPR.
At meal’s end, there were enough leftovers to feed an army, or to feed Janelle for an entire week. All of it was neatly packed up and contained in a stylish rope handle bag. What we hadn’t realized was that on the way to use the restroom, Janelle had swung by the great table and the round with the sorority sisters to inquire as to how everyone’s meal had been (as if), and then, after determining everyone was from out-of-town, asked for their leftovers. Janelle hated seeing all of that good food go to waste. Ditto for any leftover wine they weren’t taking back to their hotels. Some folks were a bit taken aback by Janelle’s bold request; others thought it funny. But in the end, everyone relinquished their leftover food. Janelle looked like someone who could use some free food, everyone thought silently. This would be a good turn, giving their leftovers to an older person on a fixed income.
Janelle was clueless. She’d been pulling this stunt for some time, and so far, everyone had acquiesced to her requests. That afternoon, she boldly walked out of Le Manoir with FIVE bags of leftovers and a six-bottle wine tote at full capacity. For Janelle, this was a win-win situation. Or should I say a win-wine situation?
Holy shit.
As my ex-husband, Hank, used to say: “People who know what they want, get what they want.” Hank was an idiot, but on this, he was right. Janelle knew exactly what she wanted from the moment I picked her for our lunch date: free food and liquor, and a friend who could play designated driver. I was starting to get it — ours was a friendship of convenience. Why? Because I was her only friend who didn’t drink. And I always had a car with a full tank of gas.
Not-so-sadly, this would be my last lunch with Janelle. When we arrived at her apartment complex, I begged off on carrying her bags and wine up the two flights to her front door — even though Janelle has a bad hip. Call me a bitch. Whatever.
Next time Janelle needs a free ride and someone to split the tab down the middle, she can call one of her drinking buddies, and an Uber. Buh-bye.
No, Lorinda is her own woman. She's a mix of many of my fav people. There might be a bit of you in there, and Lucille Ball, a pinch of Molly Ivins. Lorinda is able to say some of the things the rest of us can't get away with.
OK, yes, she's me.
Another great piece! Just a thought: but I think we need some kind of new official Taxonomy of Unpleasant People. Or people strictly TBA (to be avoided), AAC (at all cost). We already have the cultural moniker of the "Karen" (may I speak to your manager), and now I suggest we draft the name "Janelle" as a certain type of clueless, annoying, narcissistic user. I furthermore vote that YOU are the right person to do this! I recall you did a taxonomy of older men that was not only insightful but hysterical.