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18 April, 2011

I Sat Behind the Queen

At long last, I found a great place to eat in Wenatchee.

Not brewpubs being available (I am on the periphery of wine country, in apple country actually, a place wishing cider culture had arisen from the pomme, as fine vinophilia had from the grape, or at least brazen bierkultur had hopped up angrily from the wort, challenging the winers to a fight), I go for the place with local food and almost local micro-brews.

As is the case most times I have et at restaurants, I walk in and say, "Just one." Lonely, maybe, but that's work. I get to have what I want, do not have to cut anything for tiny companions, and perdiem covers it. Usually.

At the next table, her back to me, is the queen. Maybe if I'd paid attention, I would've deduced that from the poofed-up mid-50's frosted (not gray!) short cut hair, the patrician back-fat spilling over her bra-strap, the dictating to her consort. Said husband kept quiet mostly, other than  blowing his nose (medieval queen, perhaps, not offended at all), mostly just nodding, exuding pre-verbal solicitousness.

As queens are wont to do, she pretended to seek the server's advice. Then ignored it. Decided on the fish instead, and even then expressed doubts that the help could prepare it correctly. The server, sensing her role, carefully teased forth the details of her queenship's preferences, inquired as to every aspect of the preparation, and assured her majesty that it would be great. Queens only want the greatest.

The platter came, and on the first check after, the help could sense something less than complete satisfaction. Yon queen obviously thought that the thin end of the filet was overooked. 

Server says, I can take it back and bring you a new one.

No, says the queen, playing enlightened despot, suffering so that the serfs can be just a weentsy more comfortable.

"If it is not to your liking," says the server, "we are only too happy to bring you another. You will find the main part of the filet to be perfect, unlike the edge." She has slyly brought the cook into the mix, implicating him in the servitude, I think, rather than trying to blame him. "The cook has personally come up with this recipe for you, your majesty, and if thou are not happy, he will invent another." 

But the queen is feeling beneficent and indulgent today. She will have none of it, and will plow through this substandard fare.

Or, as it turns out, partly through it. She chokes down the thin overcooked end, muttering to her hapless prince, who repeats all the offers of make-up food. Then, as she gets to the succulent part, decides she is full. Has it boxed. To eat later, watching cable TV, microwaving the imperial meal.

Yon queen fishes her consort's wallet from her purse, and has him pay, then carry the take-out boxes. 

All this, and somehow, I am unimpressed by royalty.

1 comment:

  1. It may be unimpressive ... but I bet you are craving hasenpfeffer just about as badly as I am, reliving your brush with the magic of majesty.