After I had made it through the first Valentines Day after my big break-up, I decided that I would try my hand at on-line dating. I worked my through the endless questionnaires required to join eHarmony. I posted a few photographs that bear a general resemblance to my current appearance and a couple that serve to illuminate my personality. When I received my first batch of matches I began to communicate with a couple of men who sounded like they might be interesting.
After a week or so of correspondence I accepted, via email, a dinner date with a man from Galveston. That should have been my first clue. Not that he lived in Galveston, but that he was FROM Galveston. He wanted to go to Fogo de Chao. I had only been once previously and had had an entirely acceptable meal. But, in retrospect, that had probably been the company.
Before going agreeing to meet this man for dinner, I knew that he was a Captain in the Merchant Marines. One of my best girlfriends is married to a former Merchant Marine Captain, so I figured that if this relationship worked out, maybe her husband and this guy could be friends. Oh, silly me! Silly, silly me.
I arrived at the restaurant at the agreed upon hour and asked the hostess to show me to his table; which she did. For those of you who have never been to Fogo de Chao, it’s a Brazilian-style meat joint. That’s right, all the steaks and chops have been waxed smooth and are served with thongs. The ceilings are very high, the tables are rather close together, and the main room is very large. In short, the ambient noise level is somewhere between a rock concert and and the 31 runway at Newark Airport. I say hello to my date and give him a casual hug of greeting and a kiss on the cheek. Remember, I am a French woman who was born on the wrong continent. He greets me with one of the thickest east Texas/Cajun blended accents I had ever heard.
His accent reminded me of the first time I went out with some of the girls from my PhD program. As I sat in the back seat of the car, the following exchange took place with the driver, a young woman from Midland, Texas:
Me: “So, Driver, what does your father do?
Driver: “My daddy’s in the ahll business.”
Me: “I beg your pardon?”
Driver: “My daddy’s in the ahll business.”
Me: “I’m sorry. The which business?”
Driver (getting exasperated): “The AHLL business.”
Me: [silence]
Driver (audibly frustrated): “The AHLL business. O-I-L. Ahll.”
Me (after having been spelled to): “OH, the OY-IL business.”
Driver (thinking I’m stupid): “That’s what I said! The ahll business.”
I took my seat and begin to talk with him. In a maelstrom of misfortune, I find myself unable to understand about 70% of what he says. Part of it was the background noise. Part of it was his very thick accent. Part was that he spoke somewhat softly. But more than anything else, the man spoke as though he had a rather large russet potato in him mouth. He mumbled. Like Boomhauer on “King of the Hill.” Not only did he mumble, he told stories that had neither discernible point nor clear trajectory. And he drank.
Don’t get me wrong. I drink too. Sometimes I’ve drunk too much. The mumbler ordered a very nice Malbec. But he had been drinking some sort of whiskey before I arrived. I could tell by the glasses on the table. Before we figure out that we were supposed to turn a hockey-puck looking thing to the green side to get food we were nearly finished with the wine.
I had a feeling it was going to be a very long evening. And you know what? It was. Fortunately, about half way through the evening I decided to pretend that we were having a conversation I understood. This process was helped along by the the mumblers ordering of a second bottle of Malbec. He was simultaneously villain and hero. I spent three hours across the table from the mumbler and even if I weren’t camouflaging his identity, I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything about him. Except that his mother was a Cajun and his father had been an officer in the British Navy.
There is only one thing worse to me in a date than not being able to carry on a conversation with you. If you are a bad tipper, we have divergent life views. The Mumbler excused himself to the men’s and left the check presenter open on the table as he did. It had been a $235 meal on which he left a $20 tip. This was the last nail in the coffin.
Maybe I’m not being generous enough. Maybe he asked the waiter six times for more water and the waiter just didn’t understand his mumbling.
reminds me of a “Seinfield” episode where they couldn’t hear Kramer’s date and Jerry was forced to wear that “puffy shirt”…..
I cannot for the life imagine a date at Fogo de Chao. Don’t get me wrong – you’ve seen the cookouts, I’m not averse to a meatatarian feast, but that’s awfully heavy fare, and not at all the ambiance for a date.
I know, right!?! Believe me, it wasn’t my choice!