Table Talk Among the Trendoids

“I don’t think I was meant to be a mother,” Bree Wellington told her old friend Mai Blender over lunch at the Quilted Adobe.

“Meant, schmeant,” opined Mai, a licensed therapist and an amateur sarcasticist. “You’ve got the kid. Even Nordstrom won’t take her back.”

“Of course, I love Rachel Whoopi as I’ve never loved another human being. I can’t imagine life without her,” Bree said, fiddling with the heel of the baguette. “It’s just that I don’t think I have the patience.”

They were interrupted by the sight of the waiter standing there like a symphony conductor demanding their complete attention before he began his performance.

“Our specials today are the George Bush Squid Pro Quo with a confit of figs, papaya, mango and corn. We also have a Dan Quail, lightly roasted with a polenta happy face. And finally, there is the Jim Wright Pork Barrel with a salad of mixed greens and aged goat cheese. The soup today is chayote, and our wine of the week is Cheek Creek white Zinfandel at $6.50 a glass.”

“Do we get to keep the glass? Does it have our team’s name on it?” asked Mai.

“I’ll have the Bush and a glass of the Creek,” Bree said, her look telling the waiter to indulge her boorish friend.

“Gimme the Quail and a glass of Diet Coke with a twist,” Mai told the waiter. Then she turned to Bree and asked, “You paying?” After Bree nodded, Mai added, “Throw in a bowl of the chayote soup.”

“Mommy, Mommy,” screamed the little boy at the next banquette, “that lady’s eating a coyote.”

“Nicodemus,” his mother said. “Get your bolo tie out of your spaetzle!”

Mai looked at the boy and then made the finger-down-the-throat gesture to Bree. She leaned forward and whispered, “Hell is other people’s children.”

She moved on to another subject that she knew would get a rise out of Bree. “Have you heard the latest about Neal Blender?” she asked, referring to her husband circa 1974 and Bree’s lover circa 1984.

“He’s dating Cher,” she said and began snickering.

“But that’s impossible,” Bree protested. “Neal’s over 30.”

“I know,” Mai cackled, “but it’s true. He told me she might even name a perfume after him--Neal. But she’ll spell it K-n-e-e-l. Kneel by Cher--share the fantasy--something like that.”

“Forgive me, Mai. I know you were married to the man for five years, but why would anybody give up that pretty little Rob Camilletti for a balding, 40-year-old wanna-be screenwriter?”

“I guess for the same reason that you almost broke up with Dirk to nestle with Neal.”

“Now, just a minute. That was before Dirk and I were married and, of course, well after your separation from Neal.

“Relax,” Mai said, picking up the crumbs of the baguette from the tablecloth and licking them off her fingers. “Neal and I had an open marriage anyway. That’s why we ended up divorced.”

Just then, the waiter put down the bowl of chayote and slid the squid toward Bree. As they were digging in, a man in a military uniform with a bandoleer belt across his chest suddenly raced through the terra-cotta restaurant brandishing a machine gun. A fig fell from Bree’s mouth to the floor.

The man fired a rat-a-tat at the ceiling, but nothing happened. Then he shouted, “The Creme Brulee is excellent!”

The waiters then surrounded him and escorted him out like assistants at a James Brown concert. Before he exited through the kitchen, he screamed back, “The Creme Brulee--and tell them Gaucho sent you.”

There were just 10 seconds of silence before the sophisticated urban diners, accustomed to a world of mania and mayhem, returned to quiet talk about ruined relationships and done deals.

Mai slurped her chayote and said, “This restaurant-as-theater bit has gone too far.”