A bad motherfucker pays for sushi

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The lobster roll rocks our world.

The chilean sea bass is divine.

Songs should be written about the Amberjack.

And then there’s the rainbow roll. It’s great. A fan favorite. And a tempting metaphor, given the fact that this is our first date night in more than a year. But rainbows are tough metaphors to pull off, unless you’re Dolly Parton.

Well, as Senator Lloyd Bentsen told me back when we were karaoke buddies, Michael, you are no Dolly Parton.

Noted.

After more than a year of rain, Christina and I got vaccinated, saw the clouds part, and chased a tiny rainbow to a local sushi restaurant.

“When was our last date night?”

Sitting at the bar, full of sushi and good cheer, we attempt the math. We remember the day when it began to rain in our little corner of the world, but neither of us can recall when we had our last pre-apocalyptic date night.

“Were we in Vegas?” Christina asks.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Was it the classic dinner and a movie, we wonder? Maybe, but neither of us remembers the last movie we saw in a theater.

Did we dine at one of those fancy restaurants where they spend forever telling you about a tasting menu? It’s possible. But farm-to-table doesn’t ring a bell. I remember a recent tasting menu, though. We reheated some assorted frozen appetizers from Trader Joe’s and called it Tapas Joes™️ night.

Hopefully we did something cool, like an escape room, or an art gallery. Or, an art gallery escape room! That would’ve been cool, assuming we solved the puzzle.

“A long time,” I say.

“Too long,” Christina agrees.

“I can’t even remember the last time I watched someone other than you cook,” Christina says.

“Dinner and a show,” I say.

It’s difficult to see the chef through the plexiglass and his face shield. But despite the barriers, I admire his flow—managing whatever is on his cutting board, the kitchen chaos behind him, and the customer straight ahead. The sushi chef is a pro, but as an amateur who does most of the cooking at home, I have just enough game to respect his game.

“This was a fun night,” I say. “We needed this.”

“Yuppers.”

Time for the check. The waitress takes our card. I start to put my wallet onto the counter, then change my mind at the last second.

“You’re not going to lay that bad motherfucker down are you?” Christina asks.

My wallet is the one that says bad motherfucker on it. Christina gave it to for Christmas. Usually, the wallet goes unnoticed. On occasion, there are shenanigans.

“I can’t put the wallet down here,” I say, nodding toward the chef. “It feels awkward at best, disrespectful at worst.”

“Are you embarrassed?”

“A little.”

“Do we need to get you a new wallet?”

“No way,” I insist. “I’m still a bad motherfucker.”

Christina laughs and says, “Oh honey, you are no bad motherfucker.”

Noted.

I’m just a man, sitting next to the woman he loves, enjoying their first date night after a very long storm.

Thanks for reading! I’ll be back next week with another story! In the meantime, please do me a huge favor and SHARE this newsletter with your favorite people!

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