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Those were the two things listed on the menu. “Duck,” and underneath it read “Surprise.”
Don Juan DeMarco came over and explained that we could choose one or the other.
“That’s quite a selection,” I said, handing him the menu. “I’ll take the surprise.”
“Do you ladies have any allergais?” he asked. “Ve must know before preparing ze food.”
“Yes,” I told him. “I’m allergic to duck.”
“Aaaah, zank you, and you, madame?” he asked, looking at Sarah.
“I’ll take the duck.”
“Okay, ladies, you vill be seat-ad in just a few momenz.” I couldn’t help thinking that this man was faking his French accent. No one in his right mind could take himself seriously enough to talk in such an affected ma
We sat at one of the tables in the front room as the door next to the lockers opened and what appeared to be a blind waiter peeked his head out and called for the two gay men who were sitting at one of the other cocktail tables. They got up and walked over to the waiter, who turned and with his back facing them, took the first man’s hand and placed it on his own shoulder, leading him into an abyss of darkness.
“This is ridiculous,” I told Sarah, watching them.
“I’m getting scared,” she said, wide-eyed and giggling like a schoolgirl.
“Aren’t you happy Albert called off the wedding? Otherwise we’d never have had the opportunity to dine at Dine la…what the hell is the name of this place?”
“Noir. It’s Dans le Noir. He’s such a scumbag. I hope he catches herpes from that waitress,” she said.
“He will,” I assured her. “And when she dumps him on his Mexican ass, I hope he loses his job and then pulls a hamstring.”
“He’s Cuban, Chelsea.”
“Whatever.”
“Do you think she’ll break up with him?” she asked me.
“Yes, I do. He’s a loser, and by the way, he’s shaped like a woman. He’s got a woman’s ass.”
“Really?”
“Yes, he has a woman’s body, and with time, it will become increasingly more and more bitchlike.”
“He did kind of have man boobs,” she said.
“Sarah, they were bigger than mine. He’s got to be at least a D-cup.”
“Oh my God, he did. And by the way, he wasn’t that good in bed either.”
“Of course he wasn’t, Sarah. Bitch tits can’t be good in bed. It makes you feel like you’re hooking up with another chick.”
A waiter opened up the door to darkness and spoke a few words before the mâitre d’ waved us over. “Mademoiselles, I do hope you enjoy Dans le Noir,” he a
Our waiter, who was clearly blind, and looking to my left while talking to us, introduced himself as Brian. He wasn’t French, but he did have an accent of some kind that was extremely hard to pinpoint because he had the same pitch as Michael Jackson. Sarah, at this point, was of course brimming with excitement. Not only were we about to dine in the dark, but there was a real live blind man about to escort us into our bad dream.
“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he said as he turned on his heels and led us into a dark corridor. Thinking that sounded a lot like a song lyric, I put my hand on Brian’s shoulder, Sarah put her hand on mine, and Brian led us into what may have well as been a well. Not only was it pitch black, but I had no sense of anything around me and was relying on a blind man who had the voice of a four-year-old girl.
“Are you having fun yet?” I called over my shoulder.
“Oh my God, oh my God, Chelsea, I can’t see,” she whispered, squeezing my shoulder.
“Just take it nice and slow, ladies,” Brian said as he led us toward voices and clanging noises. “Okay, just take deep breaths if you feel overwhelmed.”
“You’re starting to sound like a porn director, Brian.”
“Okay, girls, here we are,” he said, ignoring my comment as he led us to our chairs. “The table is right in front of you.”
“Thank you, Brian. I would have never figured that out,” I told him, putting my elbows on the table and spreading my legs apart like a trucker. If no one could see me, I was going to take full advantage of it and break all the table ma
Brian took our drink orders and left us alone. There were voices near us but none directly next to us.
“Chelsea, I’m getting really claustrophobic.”
“Just breathe.”
“I am,” she said, clutching my hands, “but this is freaking me out.” She was giggling, but in a very passive-aggressive way, and I wasn’t sure if there was going to be some sort of full-blown panic attack.
“Sarah,” I said sternly, “the lights are off, that is all. Just keep breathing in through your mouth and out through your ass.”
“I’m hot.”
“Drink your water,” I said, feeling around for any water and knocking the silverware onto the floor in the process. “Here.”
“I think I need to take my sweater off.”
“So take it off.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I have nothing on underneath.”
“Sarah, no one can see you here, who cares? Take it off and rest your tickets on the table. I’m thinking about pulling my pants down just for shits and giggles.”
“I think I may need to take it off, Chelsea. I think I’m hyperventilating.”
“Take it off, Sarah, please, I do not want you to hyperventilate,” I pleaded, and then got up and felt my way over to her side of the table. “Do you want me to pour a glass of water over your head?”
“No, no, I’ll be fine,” she said, taking deep breaths. Once her sweater was off, she started to calm down. Brian walked over to the table.
“It’s me,” he whispered. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” Sarah told him. “I’m just a little claustrophobic. Can I get some more water?”
“And can I get some more Ketel One?” I added. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked Sarah.
“Yes, I’m fine, go sit down.”
“Sarah?”
“What?”
“If you had to have sex with the mâitre d’ for two hours missionary style, or you had to go down on Star Jones for half an hour, who would you choose?”
“The mâitre d’.”
I found my way back to my seat just as Brian came back and put his hand on my shoulder. “Hi,” he said, “it’s me.”
“I know.”
“I’m putting your vodka on the right,” he said, maneuvering my hand to touch the glass. “And Sarah, I’m going to put your water on your right as well.”
Ten minutes later Brian came back and seated two English girls next to us. One of them was very sweet, but the other one didn’t seem very interested in mingling with Americans. I got this impression right after I said “Hello,” and she muttered, “Great, bloody Americans.”
I am very sympathetic to why foreigners think that Americans are loud and obnoxious. Many of us, including myself, are. But just because we have a president who can’t spell “cat” doesn’t mean we all voted for him. Along with a huge constituancy, I am also counting the days until Barack Obama or Ryan Seacrest takes over.
The nice girl asked us if this was our first time at the restaurant, and how we had heard about the place. Sarah jumped in and told her all about her online research and how the restaurant originated in Paris, blah, blah, blah. The nice girl seemed a lot like Sarah as far as research and pla
Sarah told the girl that we absolutely loved it here and were having the best time in London. “What a great city you guys get to live in,” she said, panting excitedly.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to get in the conversation.
This is when the mean girl decided she would add to the conversation.
“Yes, it’s nice being exposed to civilization, isn’t it?”
Before I could respond, Brian walked over and leaned down above us. “Hi. It’s me.”