GALL AT THE EMORY

I forgot to record a stunningly lame experience Stavros and I had last weekend at the Emory.

Normally we wouldn't go there for dinner but it was very sunny and nice out and neither of us had the energy to try to figure out anything exotic. So we took a table near the window and had an average sandwich-based dinner. (There was one incident regarding my suspicion that my request for no mayonnaise on my BLT had been ignored but it turned out only to be butter. Which is still gross because I don't consider butter a condiment.) When we were almost finished, my dear friend Janis Beaglehole and her boyfriend Ronald Pringlefarm showed up with his small daughter Maverick and they took the table next to ours. After having a drink with them and enjoying the charming little girl's drawings and antics, Stavros asked out waitress for the bill. "Just yours?" she asked. "Yes," he answered.

The bill arrived, Stavros paid it, and we left.

The following morning, Janis called me. She said our waitress had come to the table following our departure in a state of distress. It turns out that when she'd asked Stavros if he meant "his" bill, she'd meant his alone. Not mine. His. Nevermind that we'd arrived together, ate together, were clearly TO-GETH-ER...somehow this lady thought we were going dutch, perhaps even leaving seperately, and when he asked for his check, he meant to pay for his own food and drink and leave without me. The waitress apparently told Janis and Ronald that they'd "just have to pay" my tab. After giving it some thought, the waitress apparently changed her mind, which was good because Janis and Ronald were justifiably affronted by the notion, and she told them that because she sees us "all the time" --an overstatement, she sees us sometimes--she would catch us later. Well, this "catching us" concept came to fruition a few days later when I stopped in for a drink. I ordered and was standing at the bar examining my cuticles while I waited for my drink and suddenly she slid onto the bar in front of me and folded her arms on the counter and said "Hi," in a tone of voice Dick Cheney might use when personally strapping Osama Bin Laden to a waterboarding table.

"Hi," I said, well aware of where we were goin' with this. She says, "Did you hear about what happened?"

"Yeah," says I, waving a hand toward the bartender ringing up my drink, "Just add it to my tab."

I see her steathily approach the bartender and watch as a brief caucus takes place. I go sit down. A few minutes later, she appears at the table and kneels before me as if in supplication.

"I can't add that to your tab," she says, "I had to pay for it myself so I need you to give me the money."

"You want me to pay you right now?" I ask, just makin' sure I understand.

"Yes," she says.

"I don't have any cash," I tell her.

"Can you write me a check?"

OK. I'm galled now. I understand that I, or we, owe her this money, but I am beginning to feel hounded. We didn't try to skip out on the tab.

"Um...we'll come by tomorrow and pay it," I say.

Tomorrow is Friday. Stavros and I have dinner at Shilla, which is "just okay," according to local journalist Morticia Baton. Afterward, we go to the Emory as promised for a drink and to pay our tab.

Stavros generously handed over a rough estimate of our payment to the manager, Byron, who indicated that he felt the whole matter was distasteful and also added that if he'd known about it that night, that he'd have had our bill erased entirely.

They do have good pickles there, though.