The Blues

I’ll Have What She’s Having, Reprise

On September 6, 2010, in Family, Food, by Rosie

Going out for dinner is an absolute highlight for us. It’s more difficult with kids, however, and I had to stop myself slamming the end of my butter knife down on the table when Pip announced that there wasn’t ‘anything I like, except chips’ on a pretty child-friendly menu.

We had dinner out on Saturday night. It was such a nicely organized menu, but all the girls could see were CHIPS.

It wasn’t that she wanted chips. I get that, what child doesn’t want ‘em (in fact, what adult doesn’t want ‘chips n’ salad’ as their accompaniment rather than vegetables — unless you’re my mother) it was Pip’s tone. She rolled her eyes as though the place was the most boring in Boredomville, sneered at the menu, grouched at each of my (MORE gritted teeth) suggestions and then was taken by Mac for some time out in the foyer.

Oh yes. Dining with children. Such a pleasurable experience. This was before Pop decided she was tired after starting the HOLIDAY day at 5.30 am with chirps about buffet breakfasts and swims in the indoor pool.

This post isn’t about the joys of a weekend away with kids, but a short tale about a wonderful slip of the tongue from our waitress. She was a confident young person, perhaps in her 20s, and her eyes shone brightly as she regaled us with the specials of the day. Soup de jour, of roasted mushrooms and garlic. Fish of the day, straight from a waterlogged Victoria, thanks to more rain than we’ve had down here for longer than it takes the kids to declare ‘I don’t like this food’ (unless we’re feasting at McTakeAways).

Then we got to the roast of the day. Our waitress, Matty, announced ‘the pork of the day is … the pork of the day … er … the roast of the day is pork.’

The dinners at Matty’s table knew that ‘pork’ was a vulgar sexual expression, often used in the dance clubs of the 80s as variation from ‘do youse wanna root?’ It’s classier, perhaps. It’s more universal … ’I wanna pork ya, baby!’

Then, it’s easier to say, in sexual rebuff, ‘you’re joking, aren’t ya? PIGS MIGHT FLY, mate!’

Matty realized what she’d said. It wasn’t just her customers that had lewd intentions and wandering minds to days before children, when hair was big and cocks were laying eggs in the backyards of ‘new’ Australians. She knew. And she was blushing, stuttering, and then … then …

She repeated it. Why, Matty? Why?

The pork of the day … and then she LAUGHED. Out loud. And blushed (again) and looked around for a friend she could giggle with.

‘I can’t believe I keep saying that!’ said Matty, complete with her rural twang. ’I think I’ll stop now, so you can decide … about whether you want pork … ‘

She trailed off (or is that ‘entrails’?) and I longed to say ‘I think that the pork of the day is something I’d like to try! Maybe later?’ while winking suggestively.

I didn’t. It sucks being mature.

In the end, I didn’t get the pork of that day, but a divine creamy entree and a dessert later in the evening. I didn’t make a pig of myself, and the food didn’t give me the trotters. I’d like to thank Matty for her service, the giggle and the makings of such a curly tale.

*snorts*