The Most Expensive Meal I've Ever Had

by Sharon Gelfand

I once went on a date with a guy who was a friend of a friend, back when I was still single and expected to do those things. I met him at her house when I passed through Berkeley and he called as I passed through again.

On the appointed night I opened the door and immediately remembered that he was pleasant, intelligent, with a good job, a sense of humor, and completely unsexy. If some lucky people just ooze sex, then this man was the anti-oozer—the kind of guy that women always say they love but just as a friend. "Helllooo." His smallish eyes lit up when he saw me. Too bad, I thought, but there was nothing to do at that point except sit back and enjoy an evening of fabulously platonic conversation.

He took me to an internationally famous restaurant. Any foodie would have trembled with excitement upon entering, but I was just a penniless graduate student dressed up in jeans. The only thing I felt was an alarmist twang in my head at the sight of the linen table cloths and heavy silverware. Snotty wait-staff provided menus with embossed letters that listed French-California fusion cuisine, most of which I'd never heard of and didn't care to. I looked, and looked again at the placement of the decimal points on the price list; the twenty in my pocket wouldn't cover one quarter of our meal. Date's smile broadened as he leaned tenderly towards me. I leaned away.

We agreed to start with the dinner salad. As a native Californian obsessed with bikini season, salad was a menu item I could always understand or so I thought, until a plate covered with strands and strings of unusual greenery landed in front of me. I did not know that this Bay Area institution is famous for utilizing locally grown, seasonal ingredients to create unique, fresh flavors. If I had, I might not have been so surprised to find dandelions, plus several anonymous specimens that looked suspiciously like the weeds growing along the parking strip outside the window, all nestled on my plate under a drizzle of vinaigrette tart enough to make my mouth pucker in dismay. Did the chefs just stroll out front with a pair of scissors every morning and start randomly snipping at vegetation?

"How do you like it?" It was Date, looking pleased with his decision to take a woman he barely knew to such an exclusive establishment.

"It's great. Excellent." Women lie so easily because we have so many opportunities to practice.

For the main course, I ordered California quail, because at least I knew what it was. I tried to smile when two complete corpses landed in front me on a plate of fine china, their little charred legs sticking up in the air, and an unidentified phlegm-colored sauce poured on top. I tried hard not to think of the adorable, living quail I'd seen my whole life, running and flying near the coast, the top-knot feathers of the females bobbing up and down as they lead their babies across roads while making coo-coo sounds to keep their families together.

Tried hard not to think, and failed. "But they're one of my favorites!"I finally blurted, to which Date, completing missing the point, replied: "Mine too. Delicious!" Poor little quails, they didn't have much meat. My knife kept bouncing off bone which sent the bodies skidding across the smooth china until I gave up and chewed gristle without any attempt to trim.

But at least Date talked, and talked well. He was advancing rapidly along the corporate ladder of a large, Silicon Valley firm and had the excellent social skills expected for a man in his situation. As such, he paused in his speaking to ask me lots of questions, and laughed appreciatively and attentively at my jokes. Nice restaurants did not intimidate him. We soon discovered that we shared a religion, taste in books and music, and love of the outdoors. We'd both backpacked through Europe. Staff discreetly refilled wine glasses and after two rounds the heavy silver felt comfortable in my hands, as if I'd held such implements my whole life. Too bad his lips looked so thin and unkissable emerging from his undoubtedly prickly beard, too bad that I only fell into sexual obsession over emotionally unavailable bad boys. Too bad because he really seemed like a great guy.

When the check came, Date glanced at it and made a shooing gesture as I reached for my wallet to offer up the pitiful $20. "No, no, it's on me. I'm old-fashioned." Then he smiled, nice and slow, sliding his eyes over me till they rested on my C-cups. Uh, oh. I definitely was going to be encouraged to pay later in the evening, albeit according to traditional, old-fashioned methods. For now, he was content to exchange meaningful glances with my cleavage. 'Great guy?' How could I have been so stupid? We left with his hand tentatively gripping my elbow and I suppressed quail-flavored burps all the way to the front door of the apartment where I was staying.

"Well?"

"Here we are."

"Yes," he replied, "here we are."

He stood as close as could be without touching, creating a tense space between us. I felt his hot breath wafting onto my face, damp with impatience and lust. He didn't say anything else, just leaned up against the doorjamb waiting for the invitation. Hadn't he, after all, put in the requisite time and effort? On the other hand, I hadn't asked for that overpriced meal.

"Can I come in?"

I paused, thinking, then surprised myself by not thinking and opening the door. He entered and left barely 15 minutes later, relaxed and smiling. Mercy blowjobs are easy because the girl gets to keep her clothes on.

The next morning I returned to my life on the other side of the country, back to my graduate program that would eventually lead me to jobs where I could afford my own gold card. He called several times: "Hey!" "How's it going?" "I miss your voice" (Just substitute 'tongue' for 'voice'). I never answered. I tossed out the inevitable Christmas/Hanukah/Holiday card when it arrived.

"He's crazy about you. Why won't you talk to him?" asked the friend who'd introduced us.

I don't know. It certainly wasn't date rape; I could have said 'no' and he would have slunk away, pitiful and resentful, but without a fight. Was it guilt on my part? Anger? Just another example of a nice girl going overboard to prove her good manners? Or maybe it just seemed easier to let him in. He was easy to please and I'm skillful; it only took a very, very few minutes. Quick effortless payment, but the after-taste was bitter in my mouth.

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