The Three Stages Of Embarrassment

The shrimpys.

They just loooooooooooooove to give up their succulent little lives for Rupe’s dining pleasure.

Just last Friday, Rupe and family took a jaunt to Red Lobster to partake of their “endless shrimp” promotion. As noted elsewhere, Red Lobster lost money on that promotion when we went to dine that eve. You see .... when the shrimpys are on the menu and Rupe comes to dinner, you best get comfortable. Rupe ..... he loves the shrimpys.

So, it comes time to retell the tale of ‘The Three Stages Of Embarrassment’ at a buffet. A cautionary, true-life tale both humorous and memorable.

Rupe and his boss had been working all the live long day one Thursday in hot, sunny Las Vegas. They were in town for a Heavy Duty Truck Show. Rupe and boss had ventured out early in the morning, worked and walked the floor of the show a goodly part of the day and finally took off to see what they could see in the way of dinner. Rupe and boss hadn’t eaten at all that day and they were famished. Morning coffee was all they’d had, so the thought of food was all consuming. Suggestions were bandied about and Rupe requested somewhere with seafood as that sounded scrumptious and appealing.

It was decided the Flamingo buffet was the destination. Rupe and boss knew the Flamingo’s buffet was a fully stocked one with a bevy of selections and a reasonably priced one during the week. $18.00 a pop was a good deal for the company budget.

As Rupe and boss took their seats, after having made an initial run through the buffet complete with drinks ordered and the waiter having made certain everything was okee dokey, Rupe asked Jefe: “Hey ... have you ever heard of ‘The Three Stages Of Embarrassment’ at a buffet?”

“Nope. But I’m certain you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?” replied Jefe. “Endulge me: what are ‘The Three Stages Of Embarrassment’ at a buffet?”

Rupe took a sip of his lemon water and began pointing at a passing diner. “Well, there goes the first one right there. See that guy? See the foot-high pile of food spilling over his plate? That’s damned embarrassing, don’tcha think? Especially being this is a buffet and he can go back as many times as he likes. Why the need to shovel a mile of food to overflowing on his dish when he doesn’t appear to be emaciated? That, Jefe, is ‘The First Stage Of Embarrassment’ at a buffet.”

The boss nodded his head in agreement. “Yup. You’re right about that. That is embarrassing. Speaking of embarrassing, you think you have enough shrimp there?” Rupe’s boss asked, noting Rupe’s loaded plate.

“Hey ... you come to a buffet with me with seafood on the menu, you better get comfortable. You know that. So, get comfortable ...” Rupe replied.

Rupe and boss continued eating. They noted the highlights and low lights of the day. The next day’s itinerary was planned. A few more trips to the buffet were committed.

Throughout dinner, Rupe strategically placed table tents and glasses and condiment holders and the like between Rupe and boss. Rupe had a plan. The boss was unsuspecting.

“So ... what’s ‘The Second Stage Of Embarrassment’?” the boss queried.

“Well,” Rupe began, “Our little friend over there with the mile-high plate is about to leave. And check it out: All the food he piled on his plate? Half of it’s still there. That’s ridiculous. Not to mention it’s almost criminal. Thus: ‘The Second Stage Of Embarrassment’ at a buffet.”

“Yikes! You’re right! Why in the world .....” But Rupe’s boss let the questions trail off. Embarrassment was embarrassment and that’s all there is to it. Sometimes, there’s no need to question it ... nor is there a point in doing so.

Dinner was coming to a close. Both Rupe and boss had had their fill and were wondering whether there was any room for dessert. Jefe ordered coffee. Rupe sat back, contented, with his little plan in place.

As dinner progressed, Rupe had meticulously lined up all the little shrimpy tails on the rim of his used dinner plates. They were aligned perfectly on the plates’ edges - tail after shrimpy tail after shrimpy tail after shrimpy tail. Those shrimpy tails, outlining the rims of those plates, looked as if they were in formation, awaiting the commencement of some tune in order to begin a little circular march. There were hundreds of shrimpy tails. Literally.

With dinner finally finished, Jefe sat back, declared his gut stuffed to bursting and asked the final question of the evening: “Okay: I’ve heard the first and second; what, pray tell, is ‘The Third Stage Of Embarrassment’ at a buffet?”

“This!”

Rupe removed the table tents and glasses and condiments to reveal the little shrimpy plate frames. “This is ‘The Third Stage Of Embarrassment’.”

Jefe saw the plates and guffawed. Loudly. “Holy Crap! That’s embarrassing!” he exclaimed.

Just then, the waiter came to see what the commotion was about. He spied the shrimpys on the table in their circuitous little formations and shot his hand to his mouth: “Wow! I mean wow! I’ve never seen anything like that in my life! That’s a work of art! I should hang those on the wall for everyone to see! Mario! Get over here! Take a look at this - you’re not gonna believe it!” he yelled in disbelief to a fellow employee.

Rupe’s boss Jefe laughed anew whilst sinking deeper into his seat, not certain if he wanted the shrimpy plates to draw any more attention than they already had.

“Jeez! I think you’ve just added a new stage of embarrassment to your little list!”

The shrimpys.

They just loooooooooooooove to give up their succulent little lives for Rupe’s dining pleasure.

...................... ( STOP )

Late Sunday Misadventures In Eating .....

*sigh*

Rupe had a feeling. Rupe knew it from the time he eye-spied the restaurant they were headed to: Boston's.

And it was situated next to a Chili's as well, another few paces further. More bad news. (Rupe knowers will know of Rupe's "fondness" for Chili's. There isn't one.)

Nothing good could come of that, he thought. But then .... Rupe was doom-saying even before he walked in the door.

So, instead, Rupe put on his "silver-lining, happy-happy good-time" hat and ventured in.

With a party of five in tow after our jaunt to the Aquarium Of The Pacific wherein lots of slimy and sandpapery creatures were felt and ogled over, everyone was hungry and ready for something good to eat. (Rupe was naturally hungry for seafood, prolly 'cause he had walked past a Bubba Gump Shrimp Company restaurant on the way to Boston's .....)

The hostess of Boston's led us through a bar area crammed with television screens full of sports programs and through a door to an outside patio. There were a few patrons outside and a couple waiters were busily cleaning a few hastily joined tables for our use. (Rupe won't harp on the fact there were still crumbs remaining on several of the chairs after the waiters' hurried wiping. Oops. Too late. Rupe already did.)

We sat and perused the menus. After a quick first glance, Rupe realized Boston's menu was reminiscent of Chili's menu: not much substance to tantalize the pallet. Rupe sighed once more and adjusted his "silver-lining, happy-happy good-time" hat that was slowly going askew.

"Drinks, anyone?" an almost-fresh-faced male waiter called out to us unexpectedly.

We ordered. The girls (Rupe's wife and her sister) ordered strawberry mojitos in an effort to try something different, the daughters were treated to virgin margaritas to make them feel grown up and Rupe ordered a monster-sized Tecate with lime.

"I'll have to check if the bartender can make virgin margaritas," the waiter announced. Rupe's wife looked at him, quizzically.

"Oh, I'm sure whoever's bartending can come figure it out," Rupe cajoled the server whilst rolling his eyes skyward for his wife's benefit, sharing a personal joke with her.

"I'm only eighteen, so I really don't know," the waiter confessed.

Uh-oh. Rupe smelled trouble. Rupe, again, adjusted his hat. The waiter went off puzzledly and disappeared.

"Disappeared" being the operative word here.

We scrutinized the menus further. And continued to do so for ten more minutes.

Rupe finally announced: "They might be aquiring the water for those virgin margaritas via osmosis, I think. And, luckily, the beer will be fresh, 'cause they're obviously growin' the hops on premises. S'long as it's cold, I'll forgive him."

We pondered our food selections another few minutes when "Sparky" finally arrived, refreshments in tow.

All seemed right with the world. Finally. And after our first few sips, it was. Food was ordered, the conversation continued.

Mere minutes passed when the littlest daughter announced she was getting cold. The al fresco atmosphere and cold virgin margarita had gotten to her, no doubt. Rupe and daughter traipsed off hand in hand to the car to get her hooded sweater. A bit hurumphingly, we passed Bubba Gump's once again .....

On our return, we saw our orders had arrived. The specialty pizza the girls ordered was the wrong one, but Rupe's wife and sister had explained it was fine. Sparky had tried to cover it up and intervene, but it was all right they offered; they'd have it anyway. Rupe - having struggled over what to order and still dreaming of the seafood delights across the street - tried mightily to keep a straight face at the sad specimens of potato skins that were placed before him. Rupe's daughters were presented with burgers and fries.

"May I get some hot sauce?" Rupe asked. Sparky said he'd be right out with it.

All seemed in order. But Rupe noticed one daughter's face after the first bite of her burger.

"This tastes funny" she offered. "It's kind of weird."

Rupe took a nibble. The taste was indeed weird. And difficult to explain. The meat was reminiscent of ground beef, but with added extras to "enhance" the flavor. It was as if it had been deep fried, seasoned with floor sweepings and seared quickly on a grill that hadn't been cleaned in a month. The taste wasn't necessarily unpleasant, but it wasn't indicative of any burger Rupe'd ever eaten.

Sparky appeared a few minutes later to check on our order. "The burgers have to be exchanged for something else," it was explained. "They taste goofy and my daughters can't eat them." Sparky tried extracting a reason out of Rupe, but was stopped in mid-sentence with requests for replacement orders of spaghetti. Sparky at least got the hint. He took away the faux-burgers and was off.

Rupe apologized to the girls, stating this happened from time to time at restaurants. It wasn't the waiter's fault, Rupe 'splained. Rupe offered the girls potato skins slathered with cheese and onions and sour cream and jalapeños; they refused.

Sparky came back out and said their spaghettis would only take a few minutes. Rupe nodded in understanding. Sparky apologized and Rupe told him it was fine, not to worry about it.

It was under five minutes when the spaghettis arrived. The girls seemed pleased. But ..... Sparky failed to give'em forks. Spoons alone don't work when you're eating spags. Forks were ordered. Sparky huffed off quickly.

Meanwhile, the girls began eating with their spoons. Unsuccessfully, of course. "Use your fingers, that's fine," Rupe surrendered to them. They were happy to be doing so with Rupe's approval.

Rupe noticed there were huge meatballs accompanying the orders. Uh-oh. More trouble.

But the little one grabbed a golfball-sized meatball and took a hanker out of it, oblivious to the fact her burger was ousted a few minutes prior.

"Do you like that?" Rupe queried.

"It's pretty good," she said.

Rupe tried one. Yup. They were pretty good. Obviously, they were not prepared by the same cook that came up with the failed burger recipe.

Sparky reappeared. Forkless.

Rupe kept control: "Sparky? Forks?" He apologized yet again and ran off at an exaggeratedly frantic pace.

"I think Boston's needs to reassess their Wait Staff Preparedness Program," Rupe commented.

A few missteps more and we were out of the place. Rupe could finally take off his "silver-lining, happy-happy good-time" hat. A mental note was jotted in Rupe's super secret little black book: *Boston's: Just Say No*

Rupe and Company once more passed Bubba Gump's on the way back to the car. The neon lights mocked Rupe with their warm glow. A passing garbage receptacle was awarded Rupe's hat.

Rupe sighed, put the "dinner" behind him, shunned the neon lights and enjoyed the company of his family instead .....

................................ Ruprecht ( STOP )