Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Day 3: Will you marry me?

After skiing and happy hour, Erik and I go for dinner at a restaurant with an all-you-can-eat buffet.

The waitress approaches. She has firm biceps shaped like little moguls and wears long black slacks. She looks about 25.

Erik orders a gin and tonic.

"Want to make that a double?" she asks.

I ask about the buffet. "Is it really all you can eat?"

"Yup," she says.

"Can I go back five times?" I ask

"You can go back thirty times."

She returns with our drinks as I'm returning from the buffet.

"Do you ski?" I ask.

"Snowboard," she says.

I take a closer look at her: she has a tiny nose stud, skinny black glasses, and two hoops in one ear.

"Are you the one who has been running around erasing the 's' on all the Revelstoke signs?" I ask.

"Not me, I already have a job. But you be careful, the toke is very strong around here. Stoners hit the buffet and have to be carried out."

Sense of humor? Check.

We take out a trail map and ask her to recommend some trails. She points to the North Bowl.

Fit? Check.

"You going to the Rod and Gun club wild-game barbeque?" I ask her.

"I would, but I have to work. I hear there's lots of beaver."

Warped sense of humor? Check.

We chit chat some more. She owns a house, has two kids, and mentions something about a roomate -- not a husband, not a live-in boyfriend, but a male roomate. She could be in her early thirties.

Age appropriate? Maybe.

An hour later, I return to the buffet for thirds. The food has been put away. I stand there, my eyes wet with tears.

"Why so sad?" our waitress asks on her way to serve another table.

I point to the empty buffet.

"I'm so sorry," she says. "I put everything away. I spaced out."

"I was wrong about you," I say. "You're a really mean person."

"You poor underfed American. Wait here, I'm going to take care of you."

She delivers some drinks -- doubles no doubt -- to another tab le, and races into the kitchen. She emerges with another waitress; their arms are filled with chafing dishes, bowls, and silverware.

Thirty minutes later, I cross silverware on my empty plate in an act of surrender.

Erik is also finished. The waitress reaches for his empty plate.

"Erik, are you done?" I ask. "Have to keep an eye on her, she's got a reputation for removing food quickly. How do you think she got those arms?"

She turns to me. "You poor dear, did I traumatize you?"

In ways you'll never understand.

She hands me the check and approaches another table.

"You boys want to make that a double?" she says to her new customers.

Guess our time together was just business as usual.