But as luck would have it (how? why? what luck? I don't understand.) we had dinner plans for Saturday night. With some lovely folks, namely our golf coach and his girlfriend. After a rocky start of me thoroughly sucking at golf for months and him telling me just that on a weekly basis (though in diplomatic ways) we have recently bonded over our love for proper tequila. And drinking lots of it. Often.
And what could be better on one's birthday than an hours-long conversation about golf, all of its aspects including the value of an athlete and in what universe would the amount of women he has slept with affect his backswing (we mused about Clinton even) over two bottles of Kanonkop Pinotage 2007?
Really. Practically nothing.
Apart from a sideshow provided by the exciting rapport between I and the waiter - Anthony.
"Anything to drink?" says the man with an impressive head of braids.
"Yes, I'd like a bottle of sparkling water while I look at the wine list, thanks," I begin.
Anthony looks at me blankly: "Sparkling wine?"
"No, sparkling water. Water.... WAH-DER," I spell the word out, as the golf coach's girlfriend chimes in with a far more South African accent.
Anthony looks at the golf coach pleadingly, while the Hubby stifles a giggle and coughs loudly in his hand instead.
"Water," says the coach calmly while he too suppresses a smirk, "and do you have any tequila?"
Anthony lets out a thankful sigh: "Yes man, gold and silver?"
"But what kind?" I demand.
"Gold... and silver...?" answers Anthony pleadingly to the coach.
"No, I mean what brand? The brand?" I enunciate, and make a sign with my hands that to me expertly signifies the, admittedly rather abstract, concept of 'brand', but what to Anthony probably looks like I'm threatening to slit the throat of his pet turtle, or possibly asking for a ride to downtown.
"BRAND," I try louder, and without gestures. Maybe it's a question of volume?
Anthony looks scared.
He looks at the coach: "Man, you're going to have to help me with the accent."
"Now, that's just unfair," I exclaim to the table, "I know my accent's not South African, but at least it's generic American."
Anthony turns to look at me and smiles: "Thanks very much. I really appreciate that!" and with that he is gone.
We had no tequila that night. Neither gold nor silver.
I have no other pictures of cake. And none of Anthony, which is a crying shame.
