A rare hot night in Boston calls for first-rate air conditioning, which can be found at my friend Howard’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Bernard’s in Chestnut Hill (which still has no website beyond a Facebook page!).
But restaurant’s websites don’t make excellent dumplings and Bernard’s does, so the kids order their collective weight in pan-seared Peking Ravioli (which one day will come to be called “Beijing Ravioli,” if the world’s transliteration experts can finally put aside their differences and get an agreement hammered out). While waiting for the porky nuggets to arrive, I scan the room for something to blog about.
The table next to us contains 2 curious-looking couples (or is it 4 unconnected individuals?) who conceivably are double blind-dating. Blog material, with any luck! Not much younger than me (i.e. old) they eye each other suspiciously as the ordering takes place, sucking on ice waters. Finally, one of their lot picks up the menu and orders himself a drink.
Our piles of dumplings arrive and we start to dig in, and soon the foursome next to us is eating as well. Then comes the red wine that had been ordered, arriving in a special little carafe that holds exactly 6 oz. of liquid comfortably. The man gazes at the fancy carafe for a moment, takes it up, and instead of pouring the contents into his glass, he sprinkles some onto his meal, assuming it must be special Chinese sauce.
I pointed this out to my dumpling-eating seven-year-old daughter, who had a good long laugh over it, and I had an even longer one when she told her mom later on, “The man poured his beer on his food!” (It was wine, but whatever).