Monday, June 22, 2009

Breaking a Dating Rule: the server

Posted from my mobile device. Sorry for spelling and grammar.

I decided to take myself to a new restaurant in the city, this time for seafood. I yelped, I googled, I even Metromixed. None did me good. So I texted a few upper crust friends and got the same reply from 3.

I ventured out to town and arrived at the mostly-empty restaurant. It's late for dinner, so I expected Monday to be slow. The down-side? Rarely fresh seafood.

I dressed it up: Italian tailored shirt (tagged super slim fit), bespoken jeans, new shoes, argyle socks. I am fairly tanned, so I hopped up the ponytail and left the glasses at home. Even though I'm getting zero attention from local women (zero), I'm feeling quite attractive and confident of late.

The hostess was nice, early 20s with a cute outfit. "Are you waiting for someone?" No, dinner for 1. "Sounds good." I notice a very cute server talking to a lady my age by the bar serving station. I probably had a stupid grin on my face displaying my happy mood. Both ladies noticed, and both smiled back. Bonus!

I sit down and the hostess takes my drink order: Campari on the rocks. "No one drinks Campari!" I do. On the rocks. She smiles, shakes her head, and ventures to get my drink as she leaves a freshly printed menu on my table.

I breeze through the menu, and see the seafood options are plenty, many with no pasta or taters. Perfect. The hostess arrives with my drink, letting me know that Maggie will be my server tonight.

I sip my drink and close my menu. My back is towards the bar area so I can focus on the road out front.

"What is that?" I hear from my right. I look up and make contact with the cute server in burgundy hair. The color doesn't work on most gals, but it brings out her brown-green eyes. Ouch.

Campari. It's a drink that takes time to acquire a taste for. "I've heard of it. What does it taste like?" Earwax. "Oh, gross." It's an acquired taste. Give it 5 chances. "Maybe. Do you know what you want?"

Ugh, she's cute. Great mouth, flat-ish tummy, nice shape overall. But I don't date servers who serve me. It's amateurish. But my friends are nagging me to date someone local: not for sex, but so I have a date when I'm out on occasion.

I glance around the room. There's at least one other server, plus the 30-something manager (I assume). So I ask Maggie if she'd mind if I switched to another server.

She frowns, her eyebrows dropping half an inch. Cute. "Why? Do you have a usual server here?" No, but I'd really like to get your phone number, and I hate to break rules.

"Rules?" Your rules or establishment regulations. "Oh, well I don't generally date customers, right. As for the restaurant, I doubt it would be a problem. My manager said you looked cute, too." Too? She blushes.

"I mean when she saw you walk in." That's not answering my question. "If I give you my number, will you accept that as my answer?" She blushes again. Yes, that's acceptable. "And will you call?" We'll see, a lot can happen in an hour. "That's not answering MY question," she says playfully. So I tell her I'll call.

She jots her number on a check-stub and puts it on the table. Through a reflection I can see the manager watching, maybe smiling. "Do you know what you want?"

Yes. Something NOT on the menu. It's slow, ask the chef to whip up something HE likes to cook. Simple is good. Seafood, veggies, no pasta or potatoes. "That's how you stay in shape?" No, that's how I keep the crazy out of my head. She smiles again. "Cute." I blush. Off she goes, giving me ample time to check out her ass. Good. I cock my head a few degrees and notice her manager watching me check her out. She smiles. I blush.

Dinner is fantastic. Maggie is playful, friendly, and professional. The check comes, and I leave her 20%, less than I would if I didn't ask her out. No need to be an idiot here.

She asks me my name, saying she was assuming she'd get it from my card. I paid cash. Sane. Chicago Sane. Just call me Sane. "Ok, Sane. Hope to hear from you soon." My week's busy, I lie, but I will call. Promise.

She touches my arm as she laughs. I finish my wine from dinner, stand up, and smile and wink at the manager on my way out. She returns both.

Maggie showed three signs of interest: she asked for my name, she touched my arm, and she mentioned the future date. All very positive signs of an interested woman.

Will I call? Probably. Do I want anything of her? Not really, but she WAS cute, and maybe it'll shut up my friends until I can fly an out-of-town lover to Chicago for a weekend.