Wildlife watching in a crowded restaurant - Love and Nashville Hot in the jungle

Naked people-watching commentary by a barely filtered introvert

Volume 1. - Love and Nashville Hot in the Jungle.

Location: Bethlehem, Pennsylvania
The menu: Nashville hot chicken with an accoutrement of Yuenglings
The vibe: Outdoor grotto seating enclosed in a wall of latticed jungle vines. A hot sultry 84 East Coast degrees. Marguerita pitchers flow like the salmon of Penobscot Bay.

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Every socially anxious person on the planet has one nightmare. Well, actually we have plenty of nightmares, but this is one of them:

Having to order amazing food while starving from a busy waitress.

“Hi, how are we doing this evening? Are we good? Can I get you something to drink?”

“Hi. I’m go—yes, we’re goo—I’ll have—”

I open the drink menu. There are 22 exotic craft beers on tap. I could have anything.

“I’ll have a Yuengling.” 

I cup my hands around my eyes with my pretend people-watching night vision and scan. Then I speak into my wrist like a secret agent.

“Got a bogey table behind me. College kids. Four of them. Armed with tropical drinks and mid-level entitlement. Got two 25-year-olds on a date to my right. Body language says they’re getting to know each other. Alpha-fox-dog-skunk-cattle over and out.”

And it begins.

He’s in jeans and a t-shirt. She’s in a short, silver Friday night dress, midway up the thighs. He’s got a low, smooth baritone voice. His voice is jazz. She’s listening.

“That’s when my mom knew that she had the world’s best husband and the world’s worst dad.”

Oh, dang! Wee-oop Wee-oop. Level 7 domestic gossip. Wee-oop Wee-oop (those are alarm sirens, of course).

He’s so calm and he’s totally spilling himself out. Methodical, measured conversation. She listens intently. They haven’t been dating long. They’re comfortable enough to sit amiably but not so deep that she knows about his family dynamics.

They’ve been together six weeks. Still learning. Still connecting. This is that good good phase. No, they’re too calm for six weeks. It’s been like…three months. They’re already totally committed, but there’s so much to explore. Yeah but, he’s telling her his whole life story. This is totally a six weeks deep raw real-time first-time connection deal. They’re attracted hard and he’s finally opening up.

Damn, don’t hurt him, ladyfriend.

“Like, I’m gonna finish my beeeeer but I want a jalapeeeeno marguerita.”

This from one of the college girls behind me. Shoo, college brethren! My sonar is focused elsewhere. Begone with your trumpeting for exotically spiced margueritas.

“And what can I get for you now?”

From the waitress who appears next to me like a sly butler.

“Um.” I haven’t even looked at the menu. I jab my finger. “This. Here. This. The hot—Nashville hot. The chicken.”

There’s no expectation with this couple—no pressure. They’ve definitely already had sex but she doesn’t know him that well. Maybe hookup friends getting deeper? Not everything is about sex, dude—they’re getting to know each other and it’s wholesome. Just pure good connection. Just—

“…And I was just like, fuck that—you don’t even know the whole story.”

See, look—they’re bonding over shit-talking family. True wholesome affection.

From the college folk splashing about in their margueritas: “He drank 16 beers. 16!”

Okay kids, that’s just not healthy.

I whip around in my seat and glare. How dare they drink to excess.

The waitress is back.

“Your Nashville hot. Do you need another beer?”

“I, Uh—”

Annnddd she’s gone.

The couple has ordered food and sits hardly touching their drinks. It’d be best if the food never comes. Then they’re gonna stop and stare into their food and press pause on trading oxytocin.

This must be their fourth time out, at least. They’re used to it now, but not too used to it. Soon, they’ll graduate to the next step. He will ask her to come over. He will show her his terrarium with his albino lizard. She will invite him over to see her Pog collection. Aw, that’s so spot on. That’s totally exactly what’s going to happen.

I’m eating my chicken. This is delicious Cajun chicken. The tastiest.

“Right, so that’s a tough spot for you to be in.”

The girl is reciprocating. No phones in sight, not even touching the drinks. If love is a scale of 7 to 10, they’re at 7.7 jumping to 11.

The waitress, suddenly appearing: “Thinking about any dessert for you this evening?”

I whip open the dessert menu. Melty brownie with ice cream. Peach cobbler. More ice cream. It all looks so good.

“Sure, I think—”

“Okay, then, no rush.”

Annnddd she’s gone.

Maybe this couple isn’t a couple. Maybe they’re sincerely just good friends of the opposite sex. HAHAHA. Jon, come on. That’s not a thing that works.

The college kids are standing up. They have left a tropical hurricane of debris in the shape of half-filled glasses of green and punch-red cocktails. They must gallop onward to graze at the next Friday evening oasis.

I wish I had a boombox. I would stand atop the table and turn to this prescient young couple, and blare:

Oh I! I just died in your arms tonight! Must have been something you said…

And they would of course appreciate this gesture.

The waitress has returned.

“A low-key kind of night for you, huh?” she asks.

“Yes,” I nod. “Very monotonous.”

I gaze into the jungle vine latticework on the grotto wall. If I stare hard enough, I can see the grasses of the Serengeti shimmering in the distant noon sun.

“Anything else for you this evening?”

I look up:

“Just the check, please.”   

I’m so glad you came along for this session of me awkwardly sitting alone in a restaurant and writing down what I observed in the wild. If you’d like to support Stomp Roams, you can share the story or tap that little “subscribe” button. Learn more about the author at www.jonathandelp.com.