I'll Have The Muttonchops
"She's putting chocolate on our pillows and replacing every single one of those Lady Primrose soaps I stuffed into our suitcase this afternoon."
"Uh huh."
"The rich get richer," I say snapping a raised finger at our server and then pointing down to my empty water glass.
I survey the room.
Two days in Dublin and not one hairpiece. A letdown, since I'm at that age when I'd much rather checkout a really bad toupee than a hot looking mama.
I have, however, spotted some pretty egregious comb-overs. Many balding Irishmen grow their hair long to one side but they don't always sweep. Some just let it dangle around the shoulders like a silent wind chime.
The air is incredibly fresh here and I think it might have something to do with this nation's judicious use of pomade.
"Perhaps they're attempting a comb- under," I say still studying the room. "Around the chin for a complete set of muttonchops then up and around again for the full shock of hair."
She offers up a dull, lifeless stare.
"Dr. C. Everett Koop pulled that off back in '91,"I continue. "But it's incredibly tricky and commands superior brainpower and no wind. "
The server brings brown bread with a creamy yellow butter. I could make a meal out of this. Because it's delicious and I've just seen how much the entrees run.
Our waitress recommends the broiled cod. I ask about the roast beef.
"Did you know it takes 48 hours for one ounce of red meat to pass through your system?" Our waitress whispers.
"Yeah, but I know a shortcut."
She stifles a laugh. Kate is finishing up her last year of medical school. And she's waiting tables. Not craving anything from anatomy class in my risotto, I am exceptionally polite.
"Are you planning any day trips?" Kate asks.
In my loudest stage whisper I say I want to visit "Trim" and "Ballsbridge." Then I volunteer that we flew here on "Aer Lingus" but we're heading home on "Aer Sodomy."
My eyebrows undulate as I stare her down for a laugh that never comes. No surprise. In all my travels, I've yet to meet a fourth year Irish medical student waiting tables who had a sense of humor.
My wife gives Kate an apologetic look that says, "He's very good with pets and some babies. So I accept the hand life has dealt me. Unless you have a cute prep cook back in the kitchen for me."
Kate instead returns with soup.
I ask how it's possible to go to medical school and still have time to wait on tables. Kate explains that unlike Americans, Irish interns are not expected to stay awake 36 straight days.
Apparently Irish waitresses are, because she's brought the wrong soup. I eat it anyway after she apologizes and agrees to look at my mole. Turns out it's not only benign but actually a piece of carrot cake from breakfast still fixed to my chin.
"Maybe I should get a second opinion?" I say after Dr. Kate leaves.
My wife quietly wonders what death is like.
Long silence.
"Oh no!" I shout.
"What!" I've scared her.
"I completely forgot to bank the Lady Primrose bath soaps in the shower stall and the maid's probably in there right now," I say scurrying to our room. "We're losing! I hate to lose!"
Alone at long last she orders bourbon... with alcohol.
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Despite years of hairplugs, David Feldman remains an ugly American.
