Eating Alone

How do you tell someone that they're breaking your heart?

So here I am sitting at a restaurant by myself. It's 5:22. There are two other parties seated at booths. I've come in because I am under the impression that one can study at a restaurant.

Mistaken.

I begin texting. The waiter? Food server? Waitress? Waitress sounds really sexist, but oh well--The waitress who seated me returns for my order. I angle my phone away from me so it doesn't look like I'm looking at it and order the special. Red meat. It's hard to eat steak, even harder to make it for yourself, when you're at college. It is the combination of little to no red meat, increased alcohol consumption, and less junk food that I believe has culminated into serious reductions in my cholesterol levels.

I also get a Blue Moon. Sixteen ounces. I have my driver's license prepared in my other hand, hidden underneath the table. She thanks me for it, but says she recognizes me. One nice thing about being a noticeable minority--people remember you. She leaves. I feel like I've seen her before, but I don't remember.

I keep texting. There are a lot of people I need to talk to. There are a lot of people I haven't seen in a long time.

I ordered Wonton shrimp as my appetizer. I don't know what Wonton means, really, except that it's asian, and it's in a Futurama quote: "Physics of Wonton Burrito Meals... Got it." My little sister loves that quote. I text her, too.

The main entree comes. The waitress says that people's mouths were watering as she brought it out. I look excited. I begin eating. The rice first, of course. I am disappointed by the meager size of the steak, but it only cost $14.95, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised. The rice has a distinct flavor to it--blatantly delicious. Blatant. Cumin. My mouth is very sensitive. I text Susan--she said she loved cumin.

She texts back.

"Ew... I have cumin."

I understand that as "I hate cumin." I apologize, saying that I thought she loved it.

"Cumin smells like BO," she responds.

"Cumin always smells like meat to me," I text back.

"Yea, smells just like a meathead," she counters.

"If I found a guy who actually smelled like cumin, I would be on him like Italian Seasoning on Pizza."

The steak is good. Some parts of it are exquisite. Some parts are just so-so. I wonder why that is. I believe things taste less and less exciting the more satiated you get. It is unfortunate. That's why one should never order desert after a meal.

My speaking doesn't work so hot anymore. I manage to ask the waitress for the chef's recipe--concerning the rice. She looks mildly confused--either because I am slurring or because I have just inquired about how to make rice, one of the more mundane sides in meal history.

She comes back bearing the recipe and the check. Plain white rice--pepper, salt, butter--then a little cumin... I perk up. "I knew it!" I exclaim. She laughs. Also, marinara sauce and oregano. Excellent. I beam after she leaves and I glance down at the check. I feel like I should tip a lot, because I am eating alone and I talked to my waitress more than I talked to my food. But you shouldn't pay people for their company, right? Because that is technically prostitution, right? I don't know. I feel bad about that. But she did get me a recipe for delicious rice. That's good service.

I scan the check. Her name is apparently Jill. Now I remember her. She's an occasional bartender at the Glass. I shook her hand once after finishing five shots on a relatively empty night. She had been watching television and holding down a somewhat engaged conversation with the only other person there that night, an older man who was somewhat of a regular.

Interesting. I tip 7 dollars. I consider adding nine cents to the total so I can pay an amount ending in $0.69. That seems a little too creepy though. I withhold.