I'll have what he's having
Each fall I make a half-hearted promise to myself. With all of the parties, the family get-togethers, the sporting events, and holiday treats ahead, I look in the mirror and say something like, "Let's take it easy in the buffet line this season, big guy."
This fall/winter hasn't been bad. I have skipped the chocolate here and there, left a second helping behind more than once, and opted for water instead of whisky most of the time. I was good enough that as I scan the lunch menu with a client, I'm excited to indulge a little.
We're making small talk and I notice that it looks like he's been in the Carribean or something. He's fit, tan, his teeth are white, and he's animated. Obviously feeling good about things. The wait staff comes to take our order and I defer to him because I'm still deciding between the giant meatball sub: three heavy, dense, meat treats tucked into a pretzel hoagie, drenched in mozarella, and calabrese sauce, next to a pile of french fries; or the classic coal fired burger, a greasy-gooey meat pie tenderly placed inside a toasted brioche bun. My mouth waters just a bit.
"I'll have the salad with chicken," my dining partner says.
She turns to me, "and you,sir?"
I look to the menu, to the server, to my companion, back to the menu, and bite my lip in concentration.
"Um, I'll have the same thing."
I'm still hungry.
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