By Shawn Klimek
a Chianti Classico
Two flying saucers started across the room, towing between them a rather harried looking man in a white shirt and black tie.
That’s how hungry I was.
Actually, it was only our waiter, balancing two white dinner plates as he wound his way to us across the crowded restaurant.
“Baby lamb chops, with daikon sprouts, an apple fig chutney and red wine reduction?” he asked.
My date raised her hand. He smiled obsequiously and delivered the plate.
“Which means …” he began, helpfully.
Was he pretending to be stupid?
“The scientist brains are mine,” I finished impatiently, raising a tentacle.