I'm that pot...

It is funny how the mind works. There I sat in the fancy private dining rooom at Spago, on the final night of our honeymoon - which is what the Elder Boy was calling it - thinking about a younger version of a Boy named Stu. The earlier version of me, circa 8th grade at good old Central Junior High School (LONG LIVE THE BIG TREE) was eating an, oh so healthy start to his day, breakfast of M&Ms. Seriously. M&Ms. At some point I decided it would be more fun to throw them at my friends and an epic M&M fight ensued. It was great fun, we had a big audience, everyone was laughing and having a grand time until a teacher on watch, who did not like me, decided to take action and bust me (note me, everyone else was allowed to disperse.) After a lengthy lecture on the dangers of throwing M&Ms this cat decided to segue into a lecture about my funny guy ways. He said, and I'll never forget it (obviously if I'm thinking about this dick while eating at a world famous restaurant,) mainly because of his mock look of fatherly concern, Stu, are your friends, the other kids, laughing with you, or at you? Touche. I still believe now, as then, that this teacher (who again, was a tremendous, I cannot stress this enough, dick) was telling me all of this out of spite, versus any true concern for my well being. Still, it has stuck in my head for the past 25+ years, and has served as a sort of a guidepost for me, but in backasswards way. I don't think about if people are laughing at or with me, I'm just happy for the most part that they are laughing. I do though, think about if I'm laughing at someone, or with them, because, I don't want to be mean spirited. I don't want to be a dick.

So, there I sat, on my honeymoon, thinking about all of that as this Young Couple at our table ordered their fancy meal at Spago. They were part of our group on this trip which was an advertiser reward type of thing to the Left Coast. Most of the people in the group were in the advertising or marketing business and received their trip that way. Others were business owners who got it based on the advertising they'd done. Then we had this one, sweet couple who were on the trip of their lifetime. I'm going to call them Ma and Pa Kettle, if you dig that goofy reference which works nicely with the idiom I kept repeating to myself, like some crazy ass mantra:

(I'm) The pot calling the kettle black.

You see, Dear Reader, even if I was laughing at the Kettles, I'd be laughing at myself as well. I'm the same guy, who was to cheap to buy mini-bar beer at the Hotel, so I brown-bagged a six pack into my fancy room and then converted my little ice bucket thing into a mini-cooler. Imagine me strolling into the Beverly Hills Hotel, after leaving my car at the valet, strolling on the red carpet, past the doorman, and all the staff, with a sack from Riteaid with a six pack of beer in it. I'm pretty sure they don't see that everyday at the Beverly Hills Hotel, since the look one of the employees gave me when I requested ice, which you can't get yourself at the hotel (it was for my impromptu cooler), was, well, the same look the head waiter at Spago was giving Pa Kettle.

I should back up a bit. Unlike most everyone else in our group, Ma Kettle had won her trip at one of her jobs. She had three. One was as a server at a chain of Italian restaurants, and they had a contest and well she won. She decided that her and Pa (who delivered pizzas back home) would take this trip of a lifetime, leave the kids with her Mom and enjoy a five star type vacation in Beverly Hills. These were hard working folk that had admittedly never eaten at a restaurant like Spago, or stayed at a hotel like the Beverly Hills Hotel. They were approacing it all, with a sense of awe, but were still the same folk they were back home. They weren't putting on the ritz.

So there we all sat, at Spago. The head waiter looking down at Pa, with this, look on his face, that said, how in the heck did you get in here? Pa was having trouble ordering from our set menu. We had two choices. A nice line caught bass or steak. Both choices were fancy. I'm talking food as art, five star dining type dishes. The descriptive romance copy on our set menu had words, well, I wasn't sure how to pronounce a few to be honest and not entirely clear on what some of the stuff even was (and I watch a lot of FoodTV.) Pa Kettle across the table, well, he'd consider the Sizzler a fine steakhouse, so he was troubled by all the fancy stuff that would come with the steak.

Pa Kettle: I just want meat.
Waiter: Sir? You want the steak?
Pa Kettle: Yes, but I just want the meat, I don't want any (using his fork like a pointer on the menu) of that fancy stuff. Just meat. Please.
Waiter: You don't want anything except meat?
Pa Kettle: Yes.
Waiter: Very (with a wry, what the f bomb smile on his face) good Sir, for you Madam (Ma Kettle who was up next in his rotation.)
Pa Kettle: Sorry (as he interrupted the Waiter.) Can I get some ketchup?
Waiter: (Looking like someone just vomited on the table.) Sir? Ketchup?
Pa Kettle: Yes. Ketchup. I like ketchup with my meat.

Across the table, I was trying my best to not laugh, out loud, or at least, to loud. I think the head waiter was either thinking this was some sort of hidden camera gag, or perhaps wondering if they even had ketchup in the kitchen. He was dumbstruck. It was classic.

Fast forward, and the servers (not the waiter, he was sort of the in charge guy that directed everything in this fancy private room) brought out our meals, and along with Pa Kettle's meat, came a fancy silver bowl full of ketchup.

Pa Kettle was not happy though. He looked agitated and whispered something to Ma. Words were exchanged and Pa started to get up, I guess to leave, when Ma pulled him back down into his chair by his shirt sleeve.

Ma Kettle: Tell them.
Pa Kettle. No. I don't wanna...I knew this would happe. I should have stayed at the motel (that actually made me giggle, I mean, it is the Beverly Hills Hotel and he is calling it a motel) and had a burger.
Ma Kettle: Sir...Sir (calling over one of the servers.) Can you get the waiter please.

A few moments later, the Waiter warily approached our table.

Waiter: Yes. Is their a problem?
Ma Kettle: (Speaking to Pa.) Tell him.
Pa Kettle: I can't eat this.
Waiter: Sir?
Pa Kettle: I can't eat this (looking dejected) meat.
Waiter: Sir, I don't understand the problem...
Pa Kettle: Look at it (as he spears a piece of the meat, and holds it up to show the waiter.)
Waiter: Sir?
Pa Kettle: (Still holding the meat up, high, and pointing it, more like jabbing it toward the server) This meat ain't cooked.

Sweet mother of all that is good, the look on the waiters face, was priceless. To be fair to the Waiter and Spago, the meat was incredible. It was cooked a nice medium thus pink, and already precut in perfect slices and artfully presented on the plate.

Pa Kettle: Can you, I don't know, take it back, have them cook it some more? It ain't done. I can't eat raw meat.
Waiter: Yes.
Pa Kettle: (Muttering to himself) I just can't eat meat that ain't cooked.

At which point the Waiter summons one of the servers over who quickly takes the meat back to the kitchen, where Wolfgang Puck probably urinated or spit on it. Meanwhile, at our table, Pa Kettle explained to the rest of the table, that he just can't eat meat like that. His tastes are much simpler, he tells us. In fact, he continued, he had one of the best seafood meals he'd ever ate that very day, at the Santa Monica Pier. Something he'd been afraid to eat before, because it was to exotic for his tastes. But, it was a big vacation so he had went for it, and went on to tell the entire table that he ate fried calamari that very day. We all congratulated Pa for trying something new, which seemed to make him happy. Energized, and perhaps feeling like a foodie, he went on to tell us that the Bubba Gump Shrimp restaurant at the Santa Monica Pier had the best popcorn shrimp Pa had ever ate.

At that point, the Waiter was back with Pa's charred steak. It looked like coal. The Waiter, took a few steps back, and curiously watached and waited as Pa looked it over, before stabbing a piece and dipping it directly into the ketchup serving dish (I guess he assumed we all didn't want ketchup.)

Pa Kettle: (To the Waiter, mouth full of food, and chewing.) Thank You. This is some good meat.
Waiter: Very good sir, enjoy your meal.

Until I Blog again...calling the kettle black.