My old friend Al emailed me that he was in Fort Lauderdale for a meeting and suggested we get together for dinner. He and I had been good friends when we were in grad school at FAU but lost touch after we graduated and he moved to New York City. We reconnected several months ago on Facebook.
He was staying at the Hilton on 17th Street and suggested that we meet at a nearby seafood place which I remembered well, even though I had not been there in almost 20 years. I remembered that on my last visit the food was overpriced and substandard and the service was chilly, but I assumed that 20 years later they probably had a different cook and different servers. I also remembered that they had a great view and really good bread, which is probably not what you want to remember about a seafood restaurant.
I met Al at the restaurant and was surprised that the shaggy bohemian I went to college with now looked like a middle aged CEO, which is exactly what he is. I dismissed as unworthy the thought that the more I age the more pleased I am to see that my friends are aging too.
We approached the hostess of the near-empty restaurant. ”Do you have a reservation?” she asked. We didn’t. She shook her head sadly, said, “I’ll find you something,” and led us to a table by the kitchen. Al was not pleased and immediately went into his CEO mode. I had never seen this side of him and it was a totally different persona from the laid-back stoner I remembered, but after a short, tense negotiation the hostess reluctantly seated us at a table with a great view of the water.
We opened our menus and I did a quick calculation and determined that the price of an entree was roughly equal to what it costs to fill up my car with gas. Al looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. “Fuck! ” he said, “I can see why this place is empty.” Now he sounded like my grad school buddy from 30 years ago, and I relaxed. “Jesus,” he said and shook his head. “I’m going to expense this,” he said, “so eat up. The company’s paying.”
The salads were nondescript and overdressed so we filled up on the bread, which was still outstanding, and got caught up. We congratulated each other that our respective businesses had survived the last several years more or less intact. He was happy that my partner and I are together after almost 20 years, and I was envious that because he lives in New York he and his partner of 15 years had recently married.
Soon came the entrees. Al ordered some kind of seafood stew which looked like clams in bloody dishwater and I ordered scallops with risotto. I was served exactly four scallops and I did another quick calculation and determined that each scallop cost the equivalent of a bottle of mediocre wine. We chewed in appalled silence for a bit and then, by unspoken agreement, filled up on the bread which our server was kind enough to keep replenishing
My risotto was rubbery but as I chewed I bit something harsh and sharp and metallic and I discreetly removed what looked like a piece of tinfoil. I said nothing but then I found another piece and then another. I had a small refuse heap accumulating on my plate and then, stunned, I found a small Brillo pad, buried deep in my risotto.
A minute later, in response to our urgent summons the manager materialized. She was a jolly soul. “So you have our Brillo pad!” was how she greeted me, before she apologized profusely, sent over dessert and comped our entire meal.
Some things never change. A bit later Al and I walked out, our friendship renewed. “How was your meal?” said the hostess.
“Great view,” said Al.
“Outstanding bread,” I said.