Sir Reginald Has Had Better Meals From The Microwave At 7-11

[benchilada]

	This Sir Reginald story was almost painful to write. I hope you enjoy it.

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           Thankfully, the salad course was uneventful. Sir Reginald enjoyed one made with spinach, bacon, mandarin oranges,
roasted pine nuts, and a lovely homemade poppy seed dressing. Horace had a spicy lettuce salad with lots of arugula
and diced chili peppers. Both declined offers from the waiter for ground black pepper on top. 
           When their sirloins appeared—both rare, of course—they spoke their first words to each other.

            “Mashed potatoes, Reginald? Surely a gourmand such as you knows that the solid starch of a good jacket
potato is the proper way to enjoy a steak.”
            “I haven’t had enough dairy today, so I thought I’d do myself a nutritional favor. You didn’t hear me complain
when you ordered the house wine, did you?”
            “I happen to know that the house red here is magnificent.”
            “I’ve not tried it, but if you think it’s magnificent then I’m certain it comes in a very fancy box indeed.”
            “Oh do let’s stop the sparring, Reginald, it seems so pedantic when we’re enjoying a nice meal. I invited you
 here for a reason, you know.”
            “To try and kill me, I assume. I’ll have you know that I dropped off my ATM card and PIN with the maitre’d
 this afternoon. If I leave alive, he gets to keep it.”
            “Your ATM card? How terribly modern of you. I simply handed him a small satchel of cash and told him that
if I slump over during the meal, he and his busboys are to beat you to death with bottles of Cristal.”
            They went silent for a bit as they each enjoyed a few bites of beef.
            “The meat here is wonderful,” said Horace. “I’ve been told that they carefully age it, a practice I’ve never quite
understood.”
            “Apparently you have to know how old the animal is, what the cut is, and when you’re going to serve it to do
it properly.”
            “I assume it’s some sort of enzyme thing, with the muscle fiber—”
            Horace stopped abruptly, after accidentally knocking over his wine glass, staining the sigils Sir Reginald had
been tracing in cow blood on the tablecloth with his steak knife.
            “Oh,” smiled Horace, “how terribly clumsy of me.”
            “Don’t worry about it, old chap,” said Sir Reginald, flinging a forkful of mashed potatoes at the circle of salt
that Horace had slowly been establishing around his own chair. 
            “Whoops. That must be the Parkinson’s acting up…”
            They were quiet during the rest of the main course and through dessert. Sir Reginald had a glass of water
ready when Horace’s Bananas Foster arrived, and Horace did a brief mano cornuta when Sir Reginald cracked the
surface of his crème brulée with a spoon.
            They retired to the smoking room when they were finished, showing a brief moment of fraternity by dipping
the ends of their cigars in the same glass of port.
            “I didn’t know you were Jewish,” said Horace, pointing at the Star of David on Sir Reginald’s cigar cutter.
            “Oh, I’m not,” he said as he sliced off the end of his cigar. “This is a Mogen clamp.”
            Horace quickly thrust his hand between his legs and brought it back covered in blood.
            “Mazel tov!” said Sir Reginald as he lit up and dropped a hundred dollar bill on the table. 
            “That should cover my meal…plus a little tip.”
            A thick cloud of tobacco smoke followed him as he left.



benjamin sTone