Foodie

Daily writing prompt

What’s the most money you’ve ever spent on a meal? Was it worth it?

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I have friends who are genuine foodies. I enjoy a meal with them because their appreciation of good food is infectious. I don’t think they realize that my appreciation of fine cuisine was rendered banal by Navy chow, the turgid stuff we served at various folkie flophouses in the sixties, or my mediocre forages into culinary butchery.
It wasn’t always so. Once upon a time, I had delicate stemware, visited some fine bistros, and had a lovely young girlfriend who delighted in multiple courses of fine food matched with appropriate wines. Surprisingly the cat, Clancy J Bümps – AKA the Grey Menace – got into the scraps. It got so he liked his leftovers in separate mounds on the plate. She flattered his taste in fine cuisine by asking in a pseudo-French accent what Monseiur would prefer tonight. This appealed to the little fart because his ego was large enough for four other cats.

Regrettably, the Grey Menace seemed to suffer the most when the crash came. “What! A cheesesteak sub from the Chateau Greasy Spoon? I can not bear this!” When my girlfriend and I briefly made up, he rejoiced; fine cuisine had triumphed. When we finally parted, I could almost see the debate “Fine cuisine or my best friend?” Friendship won, perhaps only because he did not get along with her cat.
After grad school, things seemed to get better. Girlfriends who stuck around realized the Menace was not just a kitty who resided with me but a central part of the living arrangement. For a relationship to prosper, he needed to be courted. Gifts of medium rare, thinly sliced filet mignon were considered appropriate. This would win over his affections, followed by a delicate chin rub, a brief petting session, and coos of pleasure.

However, he was a cat of simple but refined sensibilities. Thinking of courting an adorable young woman, I fixed upon taking her to a ruinously expensive restaurant in Boston. The entire entertainment budget for three months is gone in an hour, but her complaints about the service were grating, this was too cold, or that too hot. At last, she broached the subject which most disturbed her, “Whatever possessed you to bring me here?”Realizing that the evening was ruined, I asked for the leftovers to be boxed to take home. Her look of dismissal bothered me not one bit. On the street, I apologized that a pressing post-prandial appointment would force me to leave her to find her own way home. I walked to my car as she fumed on the sidewalk. And no, I did not feel like a cad.
On getting home, I opened the box of leftovers for Clancy. He picked them over and returned to a bowl of kibble, giving me a disdainful look. Obviously, my cat was a member of  Les Amis d’Escoffier, the feline division, and I was hopeless. Since then, I merely trust my foodie friend’s sense of outstanding cuisine. 
Eventually, I married a wonderful woman who did not care about my culinary idiocy and of whom Clancy approved. Peace at home is a beautiful thing.