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?

People are just trying to enjoy a good meal and hang out with their buddies. Fucking buzz off.

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. A huge math and judgment error.

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 (and do basic math). 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, literally. 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 not-so-recently washed locks, which were pulled back to resemble Joan Crawford as Blanche Hudson (apparently), there was 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.

A Barbie doll depicting Joan Crawford as Blanche Hudson. Not only does the doll’s hair bear a resemblance to Janelle’s, so the makeup.

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 abruptly walking 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 like this 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, I might add), then indulged in the three quaffs of intoxicating libations while picking the bartender's brain on wine.

Armanda served Janelle five “free shots” from the leftovers in his mixers. If she thought to do another round of these, he was going to sneak in a Habanero Blood Orange Margarita. That would teach her a lesson.

“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 for 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 only 135 pounds. And all of this on an empty stomach — we’d not had lunch nor any 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 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 as superhumans with the ability to consume alcohol without consequence. Ha, ha.

After the scene Janelle had made for the last hour at the bar, everyone was averting their eyes, and expressing 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.

“Thank god she’s gone,” Armando muttered under his breath, suddenly expanding his conversational banter to four words.

So, here’s how the BRUTAL lunch with Janelle went down. You need to hear every gory detail. Not sure why, exactly, you need to hear this, 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 causing my mother’s blood pressure to 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 in front of her grandchildren), but then you can’t always get what you want (🎶), can you? Hell, Ed certainly would’t be, as he couldn’t even get it up.

Tiffany got an especially large gratuity from Grandpa Ed. That’s the best he could do under the circumstances, as he has ED.

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 more than alcohol freebies.

After we were shown to our seats at the two-person high top 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-person round. That’s 16 people, all told — Janelle seemed satisfied that was a large enough audience. The guests, however, seemed confused. Was Janelle the restaurant’s sommelier or manager? No, she was not, she admitted, but she was a highly regarded wine critic — back in the 1990’s, 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 person who put together the Paris Tasting. “Whatever that is,” seemed to be the expression on the faces of the Millennials at the great table.

The waitstaff were thoroughly confused. They’d not been given the heads up that there was a group dining experience going on, one with a speaker. And who was this person giving a lecture on wine and making food suggestions from Manoir’s menu? Unsure of what was going on, the staff gingerly tiptoed 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 the region once; you’ve got to experience as much as possible.” Of course, the waitstaff were not going to interject to disagree. As the tabs at each table multiplied, so did their gratuities.

What no one had grasped thus far was that Janelle had everyone ordering far more food than they could possibly eat, and since all of these guests were also tourists and likely had nowhere to stash leftovers for future consumption, all that extra food was going to get tossed. What a travesty! But wait… Janelle would be more than happy to take the leftovers. She was a single lady on a fixed income. These leftovers would be a huge treat. This was a win-win situation, right? Or should I say a win-wine situation?

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 for Janelle. Why? Because I was her only friend who didn’t drink. And I always had a car with a full tank of gas.

What a fucking nightmare of a lunch ours turned out to be. So much for catching up on all the latest gossip and enjoying the food. I was trapped for nearly three hours, listening to Janelle’s performative bullshit. Argh! When that woman is on a mission, nothing could deter her. Pretty sure you’ve never met anyone more stubborn than she.

By the end of our lunch, and everyone else’s, Janelle had convinced all 16 of her new friends to let her take their leftovers. And so the waitstaff began their laborious task of packing up all that uneaten food: appetizers, entrées, foccacia, artisan cheeses and desserts. When they were done, there were enough leftovers to fill four large twist-handle bags full to the brim. Plus, there was a 6-bottle wine tote full of partials. Quite a haul. Janelle would not need to swing by Grocery Outlet anytime soon.

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. If Janelle can fake her way through an entire afternoon and think nothing of it, I could pull a similar stunt. So sorry, Janelle, my sciatica is acting up. 😭

Next time Janelle needs a free ride and someone to split the tab, she can call an Uber. Buh bye.