Being diplomatic at dinner

At work dinners, what’s on the menu is a distant second to who is on your table – lucky too, because imagine if the people on my table last night were worse than the succulent-as-chalk chicken I was served.

Incidentally, I chose the Moroccan chicken dish above the meat platter and vegetarian dish because it was called a “Chicken from the chef” – to me, this raised too many questions about who was cooking the other two options.  And if even the chef couldn’t keep the chicken tender, imagine what the “janitor’s meat platter” tasted like.

Back to the point at hand, and I had been requested to sit with three others, and I had duly accepted. The strict arrangement was that whoever arrived first, would reserve seats for the others.

Problem was, when I arrived with Naught-ya, there was two seats vacant at a table with 6 other colleagues, who are all rather cool too. I’m not a man of principles – of the ones I’ve had, the first looked like a smurf, and the second like a carpet salesman. So, being the principaled man I’m not, I sat tight, revelling in Naught’ya’s crisis of conscience.

Being lazier than Paris Hilton’s eye, and quite enjoying the existing table, I stayed put. The reason I liked it was partly to do with the magnificent view I had across all of Paris – l’institut du Monde Arabe offers an amazing vista, if mediocre chicken – but also the view I had of my boss. She was wearing the white pants/blue singlet combination that I had seen in Les Valseuses – an erotic French skin flick that I blogged on the other day, which would have been better had not most of the skin belonged to Gerard Depardieu.

Our friends arrived. “You guys are fired,” she said, without breaking her stride as she walked to a different table. This was enough to push Naught’ya’s’ guilt over the edge, and she upped and joined the new table.

But, as they say in restaurant puns, later on, the tables were turned. At a given point, the six other people at my table all stood up and departed, like birds in a flock, and I was left alone for 9 minutes, at least. Was it my B.O.? I confess to not changing my shirt all day, but usually cotton is reliable.

No, they were smokers. And, they felt no moral compulsions about leaving this spineless jellyfish to his own conversational devices.


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3 Responses to “Being diplomatic at dinner”

  1. Naught-ya Says:

    Le petit détail qui tue: conscience aside, the second table had an unparalleled view of your bouffant, silhouetted against the Parisian skyline.

  2. aK Says:

    start smoking or improve your smokeradar skills 😉

    a “smokey” K

  3. aK Says:

    what’s that ugly little smiley
    i meant ; ) of course

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