All I Wanted Was An Olive...

After spending my umpteenth Friday night on the couch feeling sorry for my stagnant acting career I decided to hit the street, looking for action. Actually, I was invited to this swanky Korean place in Mid-Town by some friends and since my gun molls were invited first, I really couldn’t say no.

We ended up in one of those places that you see on TV that epitomize a scene you need to be part of and make you feel bad because all you’ve got in your town is an Applebee’s. Think trendy-bar- lounge nouveau- ethereal music-colored-swirly-lights-and seating-as-art vs. comfort. I knew I was about to pay too much to walk out hungry.

NOTE: You know me by now, I like my food like I like my women; cheap and in abundance. I don’t like places that serve items in tiny melon-baller sized portions on plates that double as hub caps for tractor trailers. I like my meals in heaping succulent portions that spill over the edges of the bowl like Scarlett Johansson’s breasts spill out over her bra while she’s on her period. And that side salad better be big enough to feed a gaggle of hungry rabbits. Maybe I like lettuce a little more than the next guy, you got a problem with that?

We sat on stools that were too high for a table that was too low and too far away. Cozy. The cute Asian waitress, one of several came by with the leather bound menus and passed them out as if she was handing out special tickets on the inaugural flight of tourists to the moon. One gander at the selections and I felt a spike in my pressure, however I was among people who were not aware of my subtle intricacies and my penchant for colorful complaint so I sat and played it cool. The drink selection, like buffet night in a dance club in Chelsea was packed with enough fruit to send a diabetic over the edge and the dinner menu looked as if the selections were created by an avant-garde designer instead of stuff made by a cook. I could get an appetizer for $15, an entrée for $10 (you figure that one out) and a drink for $15. As I opened my mouth to offer my opinion of the whole thing, I was intercepted by Angry Tray and Special K, the Belching Rockette who gently and knowingly reminded me that there was a special running, a sort of dinner Happy Hour; an entrée and a drink for ten bucks. My pressure resumed it’s normal high and I sat back in my stool.

A different cute Asian waitress, the one I decided I’d be sleeping with later came and took our drink orders. I bristled at what I was hearing; apple pear this and cranberry pomegranate that, Bill From Ohio Who Loves The City ordered a red wine to go with his suit. He had just finished his shift at that swanky hotel that doesn’t have vibrating beds. When it came to my turn I ordered something that was not on the drink menu, a simple dirty Martini. I apologized in advance for ordering a drink that clashed with the color scheme and waited for her to tell me they didn’t serve a relic of a drink like that, and come to think of it, they didn’t see fit to serve a relic like me at all.

A short time later, I was forced to watch grown men sip pink cocktails from trendy glasses and grown women coo at how wonderful everything tasted. My drink arrived looking like me, a little muddy and rough around the edges and came served with an apology from my future sleeping companion, “Um, I’m sorry but we have no olives…” I sunk in my trendy stool. “No olives? You’re a bar and you have no olives?” She looked a little sad and said, “Um, no we, um, ran out and have to get some from, um…” “The deli on the corner?” I offered. “No, um, downstairs.” “Ah,” I said, “In the olive cellar, a wise place to keep them. Retards spoilage.” I emphasized the word retard. She assured me it would be a few moments, no longer. I notified her that I would not take a sip until my olives arrived.

Drinks drained, plates came, my companions got drunk and my drink sat there untouched. My pressure rose incrementally as I was the only one at the party not having any fun. I stopped the cute waitress and said in more of a statement, “I’m not getting my olives am I, darling?” She looked at me as if she was surprised I didn’t buy her line about looking for olives in the cellar. “Oh, um, I’ll go check on that” and off she went to the next twelve tables without stopping at the bar. I watched staff come and go through the back door, return with food and on one instance a very large wad of cash for the deposit. Note to self: they’re careless with money, I can take these little skinny Asian guys. Still, no olives.

NOTE: Time has a funny way of moving in certain situations. When you’re dreading that IRS audit it sneaks up on you faster than the scope during your colonoscopy but when you’re waiting to tie one on with an inadequate aperitif staring you in the face you can hear the seconds tick by in cinematic echoing slow motion.
I sat and waited I composed a short list in my mind of travesties similar to olive-less martinis: a porn star without breast implants, a Ferrari without a stick shift, a politician without a dishonest thought, me without a fit of unmitigated hostility at having to compose such a list, etc…

ITEM: The following may or may not have happened; I need to confer with my lawyers before divulging sensitive information…


I stood with my naked drink and approached the bar with a smile. The bartender, a little Asian guy who looked annoyed that I was about to interrupt him looked at me. I placed the drink on the bar and asked him what he saw. “uh…” “I’ll save you the strain, friend. What you see here is a trendy glass built to hold fruity drinks aimed at assuring fruity people that, like their favorite Sex and the City character, they are making the scene so they can laugh at how many of them are a Carrie when they really wanted to be a Samantha and I’m speaking of the men. What you see is an old kind of drink made for guys like James Bond; cool and sophisticated, and guys like me; not cool, not sophisticated and easily angered when the small things that are supposed to make me happy suddenly become monumental problems with no conceivable solution. You don’t stock olives, I get that because an olive isn’t trendy. It doesn’t come in colors, it’s not made by a designer, it isn’t good looking, it isn’t followed by paparazzi and isn’t friends with The Donald, The Paris or any other douche who feels the need to precede their name with “The” as if it were a title conferring genuine individuality….it is a simple and humble little fruit grown on a tree but it makes me very happy, makes this little old drink taste so much better and I really really want one. Now. I don’t want a replacement. I don’t want a drink that is pink, light blue or light green. I don’t want a drink that comes in a work of art, I don’t want a drink with a clever name, was featured on TV or Time Out magazine or one that you made for a celebrity. Right now, I’m the celebrity, I’m a very impatient and tempestuous little brat of a movie star and Daddy wants his olives so I don’t care if you have to go to the store on the corner, get them from the olive cellar or go the bar across the street to pluck them out of somebody’s drink and plop them in mine, I want a freaking olive.” By this time I was sweating and a mere few centimeters from his nose. He stared, eyes wide and said in one word, “I’llseewhatIcando…” and slid away.

I rejoined my group who asked what had transpired, “Nothing, I asked how much for the waitress”. Everybody ate and rounded out the corners with their drinks when I was greeted by the cute waitress who placed a tumbler on the table containing three very large olives on a tooth pick. I was grateful. She smiled. I installed them in my drink with minimal effort and began imbibing. It was a strong tight and salty concoction, one that I was craving and enjoying very much. I raised my glass to the bartender who nervously smiled back. I passed the drink around and found no surprise in the disapproval of all including Bill From Ohio Who Loves This City who coughed, “Who drinks that?” “Guys like James Bond and guys like me, just ask the bartender…” I replied with that slightly fuzzy smile. The gun molls both agreed it was a strong but good drink and Special K, feeling her first fruity concoction ordered a Mojito and offered to buy Yours Truly another. I took her up on it and was happy to see it arrive with olives already installed.

The evening passed without further incident. Your Humble Servant began enjoying the atmosphere, the conversation and thoughts of the little waitress holding a jar of olives and nothing else. Ah, the little things….