Tonight I experienced flattery in its utmost form: the waiter in the white hat at Chuy’s Mexican Diner so kindly bought me a round … of queso.
My gut reaction was to immediately draw back in disgust, not at my detestation of cheese- I’m rather fond of the classic dairy staple in all it’s various forms- but rather at the fact that it had not been a round of margaritas. I thanked the waitress who had delivered it, but I had another message for my mysterious sugar daddy: “Tell him thanks, but please make sure the next endowment contains alcohol in some way, shape or form.”
She relayed the message to him, and returned with a response for me: “He said if you want a drink, come out with him and he’ll buy you one. He gets off at 11.”
I considered this proposal, but only for a moment, as I glanced over at him and took mental inventory of his jorts and go-tee.
Now, the jorts get-up I could overlook; were they just short jeans, or were they simply shorts that were just a tad too long, and, unfortunately, denim? Maybe he knew better than to fully commit to either style and decided to go with the universal jorts look in order to appease everyone. He was, after all, a waiter, and his job was to please his customers; maybe this insight garnered him his fair share of tips at the end of the night. You had to admire a tactful businessman with a flare for judiciousness.
If it were anything else, I know I could have taken him up on his offer. Full-fledged beard? Sure, why not? Handlebar mustache? I could get used to it. Foo-manchu? Only on Thursday nights. But for some reason, I could not excuse his choice of facial hair—that is if the 2.5 centimeter patch even qualified as so. It was wasteful, in my opinion, and I couldn’t help but think of a man who sports a go-tee as both idle and indecisive.
So, I spent the rest of the meal thinking about how, with one fell swoop of a razor, the controversial pseudo-beard would have been but a mere memory, and not a hairy reality staring at me from across the restaurant over a tray of tortillas and my non-existent margarita.