Fine Dining

The first time I had lobster is a memory I have successfully repressed, but it is a story of family legend. My parents were not wealthy, but they were able to comfortably raise a family of three children and occasionally splurge when the proper situation presented itself. On one such occasion, we went as a family to the most expensive restaurant in town. A converted old home, painted white with starkly black shutters on the windows, where the chicken on your plate was raised in the back, and you could see the bald patch in the garden outside your window where the mushrooms on your plate once grew.

Back then, they used to serve a small lobster with every meal, and my mother graciously offered me a forkful of the white puffy meat from the red shell on her plate, probably trying to appease me since nothing looked even remotely eatable to a child of my age.

As soon as the fork entered my mouth and the lobster meat touched my tongue, I turned purple and sweat began beading from pours all over my face. Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes and I ran to the bathroom with the vigor of a child being tormented by the freakiest of monsters.

I have never liked seafood or anything remotely like it since. �No thanks, I don�t like seafood,� is a common enough phrase for me, and one that I wouldn�t think to necessarily invite ridicule, but this week I actually felt scorned for having uttered it.

SP and I went to Philadelphia for New Years, and I took him to the second nicest restaurant in town, since the nicest restaurant closed down, much to my dismay. Unencumbered with our small town neighbors left far behind, we felt free to roam through the streets of the big city as gay stereotypes, each of us having purchased new black leather jackets to accentuate our black leather belts and black leather shoes, our jeans and t-shirts. SP was wearing a nice dress shirt, but I was wearing just my white Hanes undershirt. We stopped in at the GAP, so I could add to my urban outfit with a nice cream colored turtleneck before we entered the Striped Bass restaurant. I uttered the words, �this should be great for you since you love fish, and I�m sure they have a steak or chicken dish� every seafood restaurant has a token steak or chicken plate.�

I boldly approached the host and smiled as I said, �I�d like a table for two.� He briefly surveyed our outfits and GAP, JCrew, and Urban Outfitters bags before shooting me a look intended to say, �are you sure?� I stared him down and we eventually found ourselves seated in a dark corner where we were less likely to offend the more appropriate patrons in their pearls and silk.

I glanced over the menu and held my breath as I passed by the raw oyster appetizer, the shrimp laden salads, the sea poached halibut entr�e, and the dessert of an entirely unrecognizable origin. Nothing eatable as far as the eye could see. The waiter did everything but pinch his nose when faced with the light wisp of my cologne, which cost far less than any item on the menu, as he tried to suggest a few items I might enjoy.

�I don�t like seafood,� I said sheepishly out of desperation. His eyes rolled slightly skyward as he flitted to the next table more deserving of his attention, and I had a few more minutes to decide what was less likely to make me turn purple; eating something in this restaurant or running for the front door. Unfortunately we checked our new leather coats and bags of trendy sweaters, which would significantly delay any attempt at a quick get away.

In the end, I did what any self-respecting gay man in the city would do. I pretended that I wasn�t grossly uncomfortable and out of place as I looked down my nose at the judgmental waiter and I ordered the most expensive thing I could. The Roasted Canadian Lobster.

And a $100 bottle of wine to drown out the taste.