Not Her Fault

It wasn't Brigitte's fault, nor was it her choice; but last evening we went to a restaurant called Portovino to celebrate a friend's birthday.

It's difficult to describe the experience in many ways -- suffice to say that I had to "pretend" to go make a phone call outside because the noise levels approached Runway 24 L at Dorval airport at peak flight hours, and hung out in Brigitte's car for about 40 minutes until she dragged me back inside.

But it can best be described as Pedestrian. "Safe". The kind of place Aunt Jeremy drags you to on Victoria Day weekend. (Get it? "drags" . . .)

The waiter was fussy, obviously in the biz for years, but, not particularly liking the look of the prices on the menu ($8 for a single jumbo shrimp? Tu exagères!) I didn't appreciate when Brigitte suggested to him that I would be "sharing" her dishes that he snidely remarked that "there will be a charge for sharing."

You asshole. How rude. What, he's going to be hovering to check if I have a bite of Brigitte's pasta? But that's what it came down to. I just wasn't in the mood for sub-grade Italian that I could whip up in a half an hour and I didn't like this strutting fuck's attitude, so I got the fuck out of there. Some social obligations are just that: obligations.

The single shrimp -- let me remind you, $8, on a bed of three-cent lettuce -- was nothing to write home about. Fuck, I could have cooked up ten of them for the same price, except without scraping an excess amount of lemon peel (cheap flavor enhancer, dude!) on it and undercooking it.

Verdict: NO TIP FOR YOU!