With the combination of a deep-fried steak, an over-proof mojito, and fart gas that would have knocked a horse out, the woman complained of being dizzy and asked her father to take her home. The wait staff had emerged victorious. In the meantime, we had finished our meal and were looking over the dessert menu. The pastry chef had adapted traditional American sweets to the continental style cooking. As usual, we asked the waitress what her favorite was. She recommended the Bananas Foster Bread Pudding, served with a spiced rum sauce, toasted pecans and raisins, and the Pecan Ball, a vanilla ice cream ball, rolled in toasted pecans and served with fudge sauce. We topped it off with an espresso.
The rest of the evening was uneventful. We had breakfast in the hotel and caught a cab to the airport with plenty of time to spare. While we were waiting for the woman at the ticket counter to announce our flight, I started thinking about the film Debbie Does Dallas again. What was it about Dallas that brought out a mixture of blond-haired cheerleaders, little white dogs, trophy wives, power shopping and inbred arrogance? It was all terribly sleazy in a squeaky clean kind of way. About that time, a woman with blond hair took a seat next to us. She had just undergone major plastic surgery, and they had given her the works: new forehead, eyes, checks, jowls, lips, neck, and ears. She looked like she had just gone six rounds in a boxing ring and George Foreman had beaten her face into hamburger. It was grotesque and the sight of her was enough to induce group hysteria. It is bad luck just to see someone like that. Maybe it was Debbie still trying to make it in Dallas? I don’t know.
Cross-posted at My Ongoing Struggle with Misanthropy: http://jimmygabacho.com/?p=661