February 11, 2006

Dinners out with my son, Nick, are always interesting. Sometimes frustrating, always! entertaining. We usually eat out once a week. Mind you, it’s not Wendy’s or Burger King for us. Oh no, we’re up a step or two on the ladder - frequenting establishments such as Macaroni Grill, Applebee’s, Charlie Brown’s, Outback Steakhouse, and the like (not to mention some really nice bistros and ristaurantes).

Last week, I call him to let him know we’re going out for dinner and to be ready when I get home from work. I arrive home, pick him up and ask what he’d rather have - Thai, or KFC. Of course, I’m thinking he’s going to choose Thai over KFC. Wrong. He wanted chicken. I tell him I want Thai. He asks me why did I bother offering a choice if it was Thai that I wanted. I reply “well, didn’t think you’d choose KFC!” After some more discussion, I offered up Outback as an option. He reluctantly said okay.

We’re now seated in Outback, and my appletini has arrived. He has ordered a buffalo wing appetizer, and barbequed chicken strips with garlic mashed potatoes. Meanwhile, Nick’s first Coke and a fresh-baked loaf of bread have now arrived.

Now, here’s a question: why do restaurants insist on filling you up with breads knowing darned well you’re going to have a dickens of a time trying to eat all the food that’s part of your dinner? Do they offer wheelbarrows to cart you out of the place after you’ve injested all of that food? Keep that in mind, we’re going to experience it here shortly!

Nick and I are chatting while waiting on our dinners to arrive. He’s managed to wipe out the loaf of bread, and floating apple slice from my drink. Our waiter, intuitively approaches with yet another loaf of fresh baked bread. I tell both him and Nick not a good idea - there’s a lot of food coming, but Nick reassures me, no problem - “I’m starving!” he says.

As Nick continues to barbarically destroy the bread, my salad arrives. I already know I’ll never finish it as I’ve ordered the chicken griller, so I put the plate aside. When the waiter comes back to check on us again, he brings Nick his second Coke, and takes my salad to be wrapped up for later consumption.

Keeping track? The count so far - two Cokes, two loaves of bread.

Oh look, here come the buffalo wings! Nick now tears into them with no problems. Soon thereafter, our dinners arrive. Nick eats the potatoes, then looking at his plate, informs me he’s full. Laughing at him, I say “told you so.” He then informs me - “I’m going to eat it - I’ll bet you $10.00 that I eat all of it.” “You’re on,” I say. Can you say stupid bet?

Okay, it’s now 30 minutes later. I’ve paid the check, the waiter has stopped by a couple/three times to check on Nick - cheering him on even, and leaving him a ‘go’ cup containing Coke for the ride home. Nick is turning a little green. I told him make it easy on yourself - go ahead and admit defeat. “Do I still have to pay you the $10.00?” he asks. “Absolutely,” I reply. With that, he shoved another piece of chicken in his mouth. “No way I’m losing,” he says.

Midway through, Nick announces he has to use the bathroom - his stomach’s not feeling so well. Being wise to the ways of kids, I inform he has to chew up everything in his mouth before he leaves the table. And, again, I tell him he can concede. “Not doing it,” he informs me. “I’m gonna win.” Okay, no problem - as I watch him now stumbling to the bathroom.

While he was gone, the waiter and I were laughing about the bet, and tell the waiter we may be a while longer. I call his Dad - couldn’t hardly talk from laughing so hard. “Hey, when you talk to Nick, ask him if he wants some KFC!”

A few minutes later, Nick returns ready for battle. Of little comfort to him, I inform him that the waiter sees this type of stupidity a lot, as there’s a high school right around the corner. And, in fact, this is pretty mild. Well, that egged him on to win, and he proceeded to shove another piece of chicken in his mouth.

Twenty minutes later- and a third Coke, too.

We’re down to the remaining two pieces of chicken. And it’s not looking very promising for the Nickster. He’s tried everything possible to get out of eating and still win the bet. Even cheating - claiming to be scraping off the ‘burnt’ part of the chicken. “No dice, gotta eat it all,” I inform him. “You can admit defeat, and I won’t even make you pay the $10.00,” I tell him. “Really?” “Yeah, we’ll just go shopping instead.” “No way! I’m not going shopping!” A couple of minutes pass. “Um, how long would we be?” he asks. “Oh, I don’t know - half hour?” I say. “No way!” he informs me, and pops in the final piece of chicken, chewing very, very slowly.

Oh well, it was the best and most entertaining $10.00 I’ve lost in a while. On the way home, Nick - while having a most uncomfortable ride - smelled his hands, and uttered these infamous words - “Smells like chicken.”

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