Eight Bad Dates: Hey Big Spender

-Sixth in a Series-

By Eva Trieger

SOLANA BEACH, California — What better way to start a Sunday with your sweetie than to go out for a nice breakfast somewhere. It needn’t be a white tableclothed restaurant with waiters in tuxedos offering mimosas or eggs Benedict. It may even be a more soul satisfying and belly busting plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns and grits or a decadent layering of French toast challah, swimming in maple syrup and washed down with piping hot fresh java. Yes, there is something intimate and sensuous about waking up with your honey, and heading out to share that lovely, leisurely weekend meal. Until that fatal breakfast with Bob.

As intimated, we awoke and cuddled for a bit, when Bob said, “Hey, how’d you like to go out for breakfast? My treat!” Well, it sounded like a lovely plan and my digestive juices immediately began churning in anticipation of the feast. Generally, I eat a Spartan first meal, but when I do go out for breakfast, all bets are off. I’m strapping on my feed bag and ready to dive into fluffy eggs that are frolicking in the good company of sautéed vegetables and potatoes O’Brien. No visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, just a good solid artery clogging chow down.

So, Bob takes me to a quaint place in his hometown. It’s clearly a popular joint, and we are able to snag the last table for two. The young waitress assures us she’ll be with us soon, and with great enthusiasm and optimism, I peruse the menu. Hmmmmm. What to choose? So many items look promising. Decision made, I close the menu and am nearly purring, as I happily await my spinach mushroom omelet.

Just before the waitress heads off to the kitchen with our order, I ask, “Oh, and may I have a side of salsa with mine? Thanks”.

Bob turns to me and says, “You know, that costs a dollar extra.” Not quite sure how to respond to this newsflash, I reply unsteadily, “Uh, well, I’m worth it!”. Of course, this completely deflated my sense of happy-eating-a-scrumpy-breakfast-with-my-guy balloon. The greasy, salty fat injected meal lost all of its allure and I waited until the check came.

Next: The Dude
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Trieger is a freelance writer specializing in coverage of the arts.  She may be contacted via eva.trieger@sdjewishworld.com