W. Bruce Cameron

I'm not the sort of person to avoid a five-star restaurant if someone else is paying for it. Otherwise, I would argue that happiness doesn't come from buying a meal that costs a day's wage -- happiness comes from buying a meal that comes in a paper bag (why else would they call it a Happy Meal?).
From time to time, though, I can think of a good reason why I should eat someplace where the main attraction is not that you can order without leaving your car. My wife is the good reason. She says she wants to go someplace where she can wear her new shoes, and the way she says it suggests to me that I won't gain any points by arguing that if we hit the drive-thru she can wear whatever she wants.
This is how I find myself sitting in a restaurant called "La Cena Meravigliosa Deliziosa" (literally, "The Really Expensive Restaurant"). I have been handed a menu that, in the dim light, looks imprinted with ant tracks.
"Any questions?" the waiter asks in high smug.
I nod. "Yes, are we planning to have a seance later?"
"Sir?"
"You could develop film in here."
"Bruce," my wife says. I hear a whole sentence in that single word and decide I need some points, fast.
"Your shoes look great," I say, peering down into the gloom at what are either her shoes or a couple of pointy kittens in leather.
"Perhaps you would like some piccoli morsi for the table?" The waiter suggests. I decide that "piccoli" means "piccolo" and "morsi" is from the Latin "mort," which means "dead." The guy is asking me if we want dead piccolos on our table. I sadly shake my head, thinking how much happier I would be if I could just order a bag of tacos and some plastic forks.
"It means 'tiny bites,'" the waiter explains implausibly. He points to a section of the menu where every entry is $22, which means as far as my wallet is concerned, these are not tiny bites.
The first item is a scallop served "lo spruzzo di limone," which the waiter explains, that as we cut into a delicate outer pastry, an "atmosphere of lemon" is released into the air.
"So as we eat the scallop, we get lemon juice in our eyes," I translate.
"Bruce," my wife warns.
"I suppose if I order the lasagna, some guy comes out and shocks me with a Taser."
"We don't have lasagna," the waiter responds.
"An Italian restaurant without lasagna?" I shout, outraged.
"We're not actually an Italian restaurant," the waiter responds patronizingly.
"Oh, sorry, I guess I thought that because the menu is in Italian and the name of this place is the "Deliziosa Dim Lit" that you're an Italian restaurant, but clearly I'm an idiot who doesn't understand how lucky I am that you're willing to serve me Scallops di Pepper Spray."
It is, I'm informed, a "ristorante sperimentale," which means "experimental restaurant," though obviously one of the things they're experimenting with is the Italian language.
I try to order a "hamburger with de cheese de American," which isn't how you say cheeseburger in Italian, but hey, it's not an Italian ristorante, is it? I'm experimenting! They don't have that, though -- too much like food, I suppose.

What I eventually order is a stew that is simmered near a photo of a rainbow and served with a "rumor of wine" and a "gasp of cherry." It is contained in a bowl so small (piccoli) it looks like the sort of thing you'd put your paperclips in if you only had, like, five paperclips. I stir the piccoli morsi of stew, seeing oak leaves and burnt toast, coffee grounds and pencil points, but no meat of any kind. I feel insert-Italian-word-for-sad, as if my stomach will soon be as mort as a piccolo.

My wife, however, seems to be happy with her broiled pears raised by singing children and nursed by organic angora bunnies and then served with a "vision of truth" and "chimes of swan feelings."
How's your dinner?" she asks me.
"Nice shoes," I finally say. "Really nice shoes."

W. Bruce Cameron is a nationally syndicated columnist and the author of three books including "8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter" (Workman Publishing). To write Bruce Cameron, visit his website at www.wbrucecameron.com.