Hooking Trout - 6. Gay or Steak?

Somebody's foot stroked my leg under the table and the foot did not belong to Amanda. I know this because, thankfully, she knows better than to do that kind of thing.

Her gay boss, Donald, has invited us to join him, his partner, and two of their gay friends to dinner at some trendy new restaurant called Le Chat Qui Fume. The Cat That Smokes is a French fusion restaurant in Chelsea—non smoking, of course. Some friends of his cried off at the last minute, so I guess we were on the emergency reserve list. She accepted straight away because she's been angling for promotion into the senior sales role ever since they announced the new position. That's why she pounced on the vacant seat next to him as soon as we arrived, leaving me to introduce myself and sit at the only remaining seat opposite her on the round table.

I agreed to accompany her for two reasons. One, I don't want to trample on rule three of her relationship doctrine: respect your woman's career, and two, even though I am usually restricted to one night out per week, I've seen the boys a lot lately, pointedly since Gina slept over for two nights running because of work going on in her apartment. Playing out late made a whole lot of sense because I managed to avoid any further encounters with any of Amanda's scary friends. Including Danny, who has sadly not returned.

So tonight, somewhere across town, there is a lonely bar stool between Doug and Bill where I should be perched, watching a live drag show and cradling a Cosmo. Instead, on my one night out, not only am I sitting here with four people I don't know, drinking bottled beer, eating food I probably won't like, and making polite conversation--but someone just felt me up.

So while we're waiting for food to arrive and while Amanda's deep in animated conversation with Donald, the owner of the advertising agency, I'm trying my best to do the same with his partner, Bryan. With a Y. I’m doing my damnedest to pretend I know nothing about theater, trying hard not to correct them when they get something wrong. Two of their close friends are also invited, another couple, and both off-Broadway actors. Bob and Eric. Or was it Derek? It could be Errol. I'm doing my best not to speak to him until someone mentions his name again in conversation.

"Oh, come now. Surely you've seen Chicago?" says Bryan, tilting his head to one side. He's someone who likes to rub a finger around the rim of a wine glass until it makes a sound like a child's first violin lesson. I want to stick a fork in his hand. At least then he might finally change the subject.

"Sure," I shrug, a smug grim forming, proud of my reply. "I worked there for six months in ’07.”

Bob splutters into his wine. No-Name snorts. They both zero in on our conversation. Trying to keep the laughter from my face is painful.

"Not the city, dear. Chicago, the musical. Bob Fosse? Kander and Ebb? Surely you’ve heard of Kander and Ebb?“

Hello. Liza and the boys' collaborations are legendary. I may be a Giants fan, but I wasn’t born in an abattoir. However, I am not about to give that little nugget away to these old queens.

“Of course I know Kander and Ebb. I’m not a complete Philistine, you know. I’ve sailed a couple of times. They’re both sailing maneuvers, aren’t they? Like tacking and jibing.”

Keeping a straight—and I use the word unerringly—face while the clean cut jaws drop around the table is more fun than I could have ever have imagined. If only I’d brought Doug along to enjoy the scene. Then again, maybe not. Our association would have outed me in seconds. Still, who’d have thought being straight could be so much fun?

“Oh my. Start simple, Bry." No-Name takes over, leaning across and patting Bryan's arm, before engaging me. “Musicals 101. So, my dear boy, have you ever heard of a musical called: My. Fair. Lady?"

He mouths each word as though I'm a Chinese tourist. That he picks one of my all-time favourite musicals is also a miracle and I feel almost blasphemous when I reply.

“Of course. Katherine Hepburn."

Light scarlet Chinese fire cracker, stand well back, and wait for explosion.

"Audrey!" They respond in disgusted unison.

"And Rex Harrison." I add, hopefully redeeming myself to the late, great Lerner and Loewe, explaining that my stepmother comes from England and her mother used to swoon over the sickly-smooth British actor who successfully took the role from stage to screen. There's a grumbled murmur of concession, but No-Name won't let up.

“Ah, but what role did he play?" What is this, I think to myself, the weakest fucking link? Am I going to get voted off the table if I get this wrong? Having not thought this far ahead, I rack my brains for a clever rejoinder.

"Professor..." All eyes are on me now. I know it’s Higgins, but I feel impelled to milk this charade to the limit. “Doolittle?"

Jackpot. I am a shameless diverter, knowing the response still has a place in the original movie.

Like Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee, Bob and No-Name turn to each other and giggle in a similarly high-pitched and affected way. Oddly enough, Bryan is the one that comes to my rescue.

"I think we can give him that one, Terry. After all, Hepburn plays Eliza Doolittle in MFL and Harrison played Doctor Dolittle in the sixty-seven movie. An easy one to mix up."

Terry? Ah, so No-Name is Terry. I must remember to keep using his name in conversation the way Amanda taught me. It will make it a lot more personable when I tell him to fuck off.

"Okay. What about 'The Sound of Music' then?" It's Bob's turn to taunt me now. "You must have seen the movie, at least?"

I haven’t, actually. I know, I'm probably the only gay man on the planet who has never seen the candy-coated classic, but there you are. One for the gay nursing home.

"Of course," I lie. Bryan eyes me suspiciously.

Fortunately, Terry is in full swing. "Nuns and Nazis. Something for all the family." He holds a hand to his chest as though he is about to belch. "And Julie Andrews, a national treasure. What's your favorite song?"

"Sorry?"

"From the movie. Mine's Sixteen Going on Seventeen." Despite Bob's protests, Terry tunes into the note from Bryan's screeching wine glass and launches into an embarrassingly loud rendition of the song, performing both male and female roles. I carefully fold and refold the napkin in my lap, uttering a silent prayer that nobody in the restaurant recognizes me here.

Bryan leans in close and whispers. "You're lucky. Once the silly old queen made everyone stand up and then proceeded to jump from chair to chair around the table." He clearly notices the horrified expression on my face. "Don't worry, dear. After misjudging a gap between two chairs and a subsequent evening spent in casualty, she decided to remove that particular special skill from her résumé."

While all this is going on, I overhear Bob leaning in and interrupting Amanda and Donald, whispering, 'Your man, he's so not gay, darling.' She looks over at me with a sympathetic gaze and a thin smirk which I am sure they interpret as long suffering patience. We make a good team.

"Hey, come on, you guys,” I say, playing along. “So I'm not into all that Entertainment Weekly stuff." I have to raise my voice now to be heard above crooning Terry. "I'm more a sports fan. Don't any of you like sport? You mentioned Chicago, but have any of you ever been to—I dunno—a Bears game?"

Bryan chuckles and shouts. “Sports? Bob's big on water sports, if that counts.”

"And Bryan's into bears, aren't you darling?" Donald snorts and nudges Bryan's arm. Fortunately, the maneuver also knocks over his whining glass. Red liquid hemorrhages across the beige tablecloth and into the lap of Bryan's pristine white slacks.

I'm not sure what the collective noun is for us gay men, a fluster or a babble perhaps. I need to check with Doug. Anyway, a red wine spill sends them into a frenzy of animation and advice.

"—to face a world of men—aaaahh. Quickly. White wine." Terry replaces singing with screaming. He leans across the table, napkin in hand and knocks Bob's mineral water over.

"No. Salt and mineral water." Bob cries, jumping up and grabs too late for his own mineral water but in the process knocks his chair flying.

"No, no," chips in Donald. "Mix two parts dishwashing liquid with one part hydrogen peroxide and let them soak for half an hour."

For the head of a successful business, Donald provides an extraordinarily elaborate solution—pun intended—in a time of crisis. Bryan glares at him.

Nobody notices that Amanda has already slipped out of her chair and is currently sprinkling the stain with what looks like talcum powder. After a couple of seconds, she calls over a waiter and whispers something to him. Moments later, a crestfallen Bryan is led away from the table like an incontinent child, a napkin clutched to his groin.

By the time the food arrives, a subdued formality has settled on the table. One of the waiters places an ornate, silver-covered platter in front of me and with a grand gesture, reveals a white and gold patterned plate containing a perfect mound of raw mincemeat and onion with an egg yolk on top. We both stare for a moment before he leans in to straighten the plate. As he turns to leave, I touch his arm.

"I'm sorry. There must be some kind of mix-up. I ordered steak."

He frowns at my hand as though I've recently removed it from the u-bend of a latrine. Staring down his narrow nose and, with the faintest hint of a New Jersey accent, he drools, "Steak Tartare, Monsieur. Thees ees eet."

He indicates the dish, successfully dislodging my hand with a quick twist and flourish of his own. Right then, the little man in my head who looks after the memory cells comes back from lunch and switches on a light. Steak Tartare. Raw meat. Shit. I thought I’d ordered something familiar, a dish I have at The Hidden Vine, an Italian entree called Steak Tagliata, perfectly seasoned steak on a bed of rocket and parmesan with balsamic and splashes of olive oil. I stare at the mush in front of me and mull over the virtues of vegetarianism. Across the table, Donald is enthusing wildly about his far better choice which fills the air with its delicious aroma, Boulettes à la Bourguignonne, steaming meatballs in a rich Burgundy sauce.

"You had meatballs when we were in Europe last winter, do you remember, Terry darling? What did they call them?"

Angrily poking the egg yolk with my knife, I realize I know the answer to this one.

"Faggots."

Blood drains from my face. Did I really just utter that abomination of a word? Maybe I’m trying too hard. I swear that even the pianist has stopped playing. I look up to see the four remaining pairs of eyes glaring at me as though I've just spat on Judy’s grave.

"No. It—really—in the North of England, where we often spent our summer vacation. They have meatballs similar to that and they're called—called—"

"Köttbullar," Bob bursts in. "In Stockholm. You're absolutely right, Don. You thought they were reindeer testicles."

The men chuckle in unison and reminisce about their vacation as though nothing happened. She glares at me across the table with a don't-fuck-this-up-for-me look. I take a forkful of raw meat, chew quickly and gulp down the mulch with a mouthful of expensive red wine.

There are times when sparkling riposte or repartee can save the day and others when a hasty retreat is the best option. Being a master of the latter, I decide it's time to excuse myself and head for the restrooms.

While I am standing at the trough, checking the ceiling and walls to see if there are any escape windows or hatches, the door opens and Donald enters. He comes and stands close by me—uncomfortably so.

“Have you really never seen The Sound of Music?" Donald whispers conspiratorially. "There's a lot to be said for the arts, you know."

"I'm sure there is. But it's never interested me, Donald. At least at a football game, you have no idea what the outcome will be. In theater and movies, it's the same result every goddamn time. Romeo and Juliette die. Fred and Ginger dance. Gene Kelly marries Bing Crosby and they sail away together on their yacht, True Grit. Whoop-de-do.”

“Oh heavens,” says Donald, his gaze travelling to the ceiling while I’m hoping he doesn’t lose his aim. “What are we going to do with you?”

“Ignorance can be a wonderful thing.”

“Is that so? Well, my motto is you should always try something at least once before deciding whether you like it or not," he says, his gaze meeting mine and a smile I know only too well curling his mouth. "And maybe you need a bit of an education. What are you up to tomorrow night? I've got two tickets for Rent and Bryan's going to be out of town."

“Tickets to rent what, exactly?” I reply, a masterstroke even if I do say so myself. Instead he ignores my slip and winks at me.

"And then you and I can discuss whether your lady is right for the sales job over a late supper. How does that sound, hmm?"

Right on cue, Bryan slams out of one of the cubicles, a vaguely pink faded stain across his groin. He glares at Donald and then storms out. Donald zips up quickly and follows.

Apart from various angry and bewildered glances across the table, the rest of the meal is conducted in virtual silence. When the waiter finally wheels out dessert, a large chocolate cake called La Reine de Saba or the Queen of Sheba, this time I decide to keep my mouth shut.