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As I believe I mentioned before, many members of my family have descended on San Francisco to celebrate my parents' 50th wedding anniversary.
In the spirit of celebration and familial love, I am now going to tease my parents mercilessly, since no celebration is complete without a good ribbing!
For some reason, both of my parents seem to have developed restaurant-water-issues of a rather bafflng nature. My mother always wants a glass of water with no ice. Now this in and of itself is not so odd, and one would think that when we sit down and the waiter says hello and offers to bring water she would simply say, "Could I have a glass of water with no ice please?"
This would be an easy request and would put an immediate end to the ice-free water ordeal. But this is never what happens. Instead, she waits for her glass of water to arrive, and invariably she gets the glass that not only has ice in it, but has so much ice in it that it is 99% ice and about 2 teaspoons actual water. She then looks at the glass of water as though its only purpose on this planet is to make her life a misery, and then asks whomever has brought the offending water for an empty glass.
When this glass arrives she takes her fork and proceeds to try and transfer the ice from one glass to another. This process usually takes about 45 minutes, and involves ice cubes being flung indescriminately around the restaurant, landing on the table, on plates, in bread baskets, butter dishes, and occasionally an unsuspecting daughter's cleavage.
She at least has a sense of humor about the whole enterprise, and as we watch with horror, she flings ice with abandon, laughing that we can't take her anywhere, while also seeming to be baffled that there isn't a better way to accomplish not having ice in her water glass.
My father doesn't seem to take quite as much umbrage at the presence of ice in his glass, and he seems to quite enjoy his glass of water. Or half of it, I should say. After that, he develops an inexplicable dislike of the water, and the thought of having any more water added to his glass makes him apoplectic. He therefore spends the rest of his meal with one hand covering his glass of water so that the poor water boy (whose soul purpose in the restaurant, I might add, is to fill glasses) can't add any more of the offending liquid to has glass. The mere presence of the water boy, in fact, seems to fill my father with agitation, and it is all he can do to stop himself from leaping at the offending water boy screaming "Dear God, how many times must I tell you, no more water!!!"
When we ask my father why he is so panicked about the idea of more water being added to his glass, he replies that the he doesn't know how much he drank when they keep adding more. This rationale is so baffling, none of us quite knows how to reply. Is he under some very specific water rationing program? Is he, in fact, living in his own fairy-tale world, where the wicked witch has decreed that he must not drink more than 12 ounces of water at one meal or else he will immediately be turned into a newt, thereby ruining his chances of waking the princess and living happily ever after? Will an excess of water cause him to suddenly melt? Is he concerned that drinking more than one glass of water will cause him to lose the rest of his hair?
She at least has a sense of humor about the whole enterprise, and as we watch with horror, she flings ice with abandon, laughing that we can't take her anywhere, while also seeming to be baffled that there isn't a better way to accomplish not having ice in her water glass.
My father doesn't seem to take quite as much umbrage at the presence of ice in his glass, and he seems to quite enjoy his glass of water. Or half of it, I should say. After that, he develops an inexplicable dislike of the water, and the thought of having any more water added to his glass makes him apoplectic. He therefore spends the rest of his meal with one hand covering his glass of water so that the poor water boy (whose soul purpose in the restaurant, I might add, is to fill glasses) can't add any more of the offending liquid to has glass. The mere presence of the water boy, in fact, seems to fill my father with agitation, and it is all he can do to stop himself from leaping at the offending water boy screaming "Dear God, how many times must I tell you, no more water!!!"
When we ask my father why he is so panicked about the idea of more water being added to his glass, he replies that the he doesn't know how much he drank when they keep adding more. This rationale is so baffling, none of us quite knows how to reply. Is he under some very specific water rationing program? Is he, in fact, living in his own fairy-tale world, where the wicked witch has decreed that he must not drink more than 12 ounces of water at one meal or else he will immediately be turned into a newt, thereby ruining his chances of waking the princess and living happily ever after? Will an excess of water cause him to suddenly melt? Is he concerned that drinking more than one glass of water will cause him to lose the rest of his hair?
Is he worried that, as he used to tell us when we were little and wanted water before bed, he'll "be peeing all night"? This last one might make sense to me if it weren't for the fact that we are eating dinner at 4:30, which, I would think, would give the water ample time to make its exit before bedtime. It is one of life's great mysteries, and I fear it will never be solved.
The Wine for Teasing my Parents is a 2007 Leirana Albarino from Spain. Steve and I shared this bottle with my parents over an absolutely delicious meal at Piperade, a Basque restaurant in San Francisco. The wine is bright and crisp, refreshing and juicy with a light apple grapefruit, lemon-lime freshness and a nice minerality. It was a perfect complement to the fava bean and mint salad, the roast chicken, moroccan lamb and fish stew we had for dinner.
Unfortunately, it did not go well with glasses of ice-water. Go figure.
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