Get your own Eisbein!
27/05/2008 13:34  - (SA)  

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David Moseley

You know what I like. I like it when I wake up in the morning and there's a delicate garment of female fashion on the floor in my room. It means it's been a good night. And on a Monday? A doubly good night. Yes please. The lunge is back. Anyway...

The difference between man and woman is never more pronounced than when the two are in a restaurant. I have long known this, as have most people, but last week I was out for dinner when a female diner effectively negated the need for menus ever again by scoffing at the hearty selections on offer and preferring instead to order two sides of air with a splash of lettuce.

I was aghast. Men like to put as much food as possible into their mouths, while women seem content in enjoying the artistic merits of the dish in front of them and debating whether or not any rabbits were harmed in the making of this particular meal.

Of course, this doesn't stop them from the enacting the most annoying habit - worse than biting your nails, picking your nose or singing the Sound of Music hits in the shower - known to mankind: demanding the opportunity to pick at the food on your plate (they call it sharing).

"Why don't you want to share?" I'll tell you why. Because I ordered the curry for a reason, and it wasn't to slide half onto your plate in exchange for that tofu pizza you're poking. And then they settle into a deep funk when you tell them to piss off and get their own eisbien - it's not my fault your ordered the Mandarin Leak and Rhubarb Soup Cake.

Gloves are off

I am not ashamed to admit this. I have stabbed people in the hand before for attempting to get in the way of me and my artfully tomato-sauced chips.

There's something in a woman's make-up that leads her to believe that because she's letting you play with her boobs she can then help herself to little nibbles on your plate. Incorrect, dear. You can't. In fact, damnit woman, if you touch my plate one more time I'm gonna stick a potato wedge in your eye, and we'll see how you like it then.

Next time you're at a restaurant watch out for this amazing scene to unfold. You - the handsome young gentleman - will order the burger du jour; namely a slab of meat with cheese and chips.

She - the refined young lady - will order the ostrich fillet with delicious mushroom sauce, Greek salad and potato wedges. Except instead of mushroom sauce she'll ask for a fat-free goat's cheese sauce, uh, can you please take the olives, tomato and Feta out of the Greek salad and can I have onion rings instead of the wedges.

"Certainly, ma'am. And how would you like your steak?" Yes, could I have it well done and could I have lamb instead of ostrich. "Of course, ma'am". Who needs menus?

Epilogue: Okay. Its 02:30 in the morning and there is a strange girl in my bedroom. She wanted to come home with me just so she could write a part of this column today. I agreed, mostly because she's a doctor and she said I could hold a spleen later today in theatre. That's always been a dream of mine - to hold a wet and mushy (though she can confirm that it's wet and hard) organ.

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