The Ribeye Reckoning
When your date orders like she’s auditioning for 'Survivor: Steakhouse Edition,' and the waiter starts packing your dignity in foil before dessert—well, love isn’t dead. It’s just been seared medium-rare and served with extra au jus.
She walked into the restaurant like a Marvel villain who’d just upgraded from ‘chaotic neutral’ to ‘culinary apex predator.’
10/10. Not ‘10/10 for someone who laughs at your puns’ — no, this was biological warfare-grade gorgeous. My left shoe untied itself out of sheer awe.
We sat. The waiter arrived, smiled politely, and said, “Would you like a to-go box… now?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He gestured subtly toward her. “For later. Or… mid-meal. No judgment.”
I looked at her. She was already eyeing the menu like it owed her money — specifically, $42.95 in dry-aged vengeance.
She ordered:
- A 32oz ribeye, described on the menu as “not for the faint of heart—or the underinsured.”
- A half-rack of baby back ribs, “glazed in bourbon, bravado, and borderline hubris.”
- A baked potato so large it cast its own shadow — and possibly filed its own tax return.
Then came the eating.
It wasn’t dining. It was performance art. She cut meat with the calm focus of a neurosurgeon performing open-heart surgery — on a cow. She gnawed ribs with the serene intensity of a monk solving a koan. At one point, she licked a rib clean, paused, made direct eye contact, and whispered, “This bone has seen things.”
I tried to impress her with my wine knowledge. I said, “This cabernet has lovely notes of… uh… blackberry… and existential dread.”
She nodded, swallowed a mouthful of marrow, and replied, “Tastes like victory. And maybe a little sodium.”
By dessert (which she declined — “My stomach is currently negotiating a peace treaty with my esophagus”), I had accepted three truths:
1. She was magnificent.
2. I was emotionally outmatched.
3. My wallet was sobbing softly into a napkin.
I asked for the check. Then, as the bill arrived — itemized, laminated, and slightly trembling — I added, “Also, could you recommend a new girlfriend? Preferably one whose idea of ‘sharing’ involves splitting a crème brûlée… not a side of beef.”
The waiter slid over a business card. It read: “Brenda’s Bistro & Breakup Buffet — All You Can Mourn, $12.99.”
Moral of the story?
Don’t date someone who orders like they’re training for the Olympics — unless you’re prepared to medal in Emotional Whiplash.
And always tip extra. Especially if the waiter hands you a to-go box before the amuse-bouche.
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