Coffeehouse Chronicles ...and the Culinary Probation of One Husband

Dinner with the HB

Good morning, Chroniclers.

Well, it's our last day in Cabo.

As always, departure day is bittersweet.

We're sad to see our friends scattering back across the country after a week of sunshine, laughter, pool parties, great food, and enough stories to keep the Coffeehouse supplied for months.

Pool parties

And what a week it was.

There were retro soul-filled pool parties.

Late-night domino tournaments.

Questionable wildlife encounters.

Outstanding food.

Amazing weather.

Sunsets to die for!

And views of the Pacific that looked so perfect they felt Photoshopped.

Every morning I would sit on the patio drinking coffee and counting fishing boats.

I don't know why. I found it strangely relaxing. Some mornings I'd count thirty or forty of them. Little dots floating on the horizon. Some moving. Some bobbing.

Everey morning, my solace

All of them apparently engaged in important fishing business.

Meanwhile everyone else in the villa acted like this was entirely normal behavior.

Nobody joined me.

Nobody asked for updates.

Nobody seemed remotely interested in the fishing boat census.

The HB eventually started calling me "Raymond."

Now that's odd because as far as I know my name isn't Raymond. Apparently, sitting by yourself counting boats before breakfast gives off Raymond energy. Who knew?

But the biggest development of the week happened last night at dinner.

The HB implemented a new policy.

Without warning. Without committee review. Without public comment.

A direct executive order.

As appetizers arrived, she looked at me and announced:

"Before ordering, you need to run it by me."

I was stunned.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You need supervision."

Folks, I've reached an age where my wife has determined I require restaurant oversight.

Now before you judge her too harshly, maybe I should explain.

You see, I am what professionals might call a texture eater.

Or as Cmdr. McCroc calls it: "Weird."

I prefer the term discerning.

There are foods I simply will not eat.

Mashed potatoes.

Pudding.

Guacamole.

Anything that jiggles unnecessarily.

Anything with the consistency of drywall paste.

Anything that causes my brain to ask, "Should this be solid?"

I blame Frances Lucille.

I'm not entirely sure how. But I do.

The evidence against me began building a few nights ago at the Japanese fusion restaurant. I was studying the menu when I spotted salvation.

No, thank you.

A tostada.

Perfect.

Safe.

Familiar.

Nothing can go wrong with a tostada.

Five minutes later, the waiter arrived carrying what appeared to be a science fair project.

A tiny fried tortilla roughly the size of a large Dorito. On top of it sat a mountain of red material.

Raw.

Wiggly.

Questionable.

"Your tostada, señor."

I stared at it.

Then I looked at him.

Then back at the plate.

"Sir," I said carefully, "that ain't my tostada."

Apparently it was, in fact, my tostada.

The only cooked component was the tortilla itself. Everything else was raw fish.

Now look...

If I opened a bag of Ranch flavored Doritos and found a chip that size, I would consider it a gift from heaven.

I would take pictures. I might frame it. But when the giant Dorito is serving as a foundation for seafood uncertainty, I become less enthusiastic.

The HB said you could hear the gears grinding in my head from three tables away.

Which brings us to last night. I ordered a salad. A perfectly reasonable choice. A safe choice. A supervised choice.

Jorge, our waiter, arrived moments later carrying my appetizer.

He set it down proudly.

I looked at the plate.

Then at Jorge.

Then back at the plate.

There were leaves.

Fine.

Leaves are salad-adjacent.

No problem.

But sitting on top was what appeared to be a softball-sized scoop of shiny white mystery. It looked like somebody had taken a large spoon, scooped up a serving of mayonnaise, and deposited it directly onto my dinner.

Then sprinkled herbs onto the crime scene.

"Your order, señor."

"Oh no."

"What?"

"Oh no, Jorge. We have a situation."

Jorge looked confused.

I pointed at the white blob.

"That is definitely not the salad I imagined when I ordered a salad."

Somewhere nearby, I could feel the HB lowering her head into her hands. The woman has stood by me through all kinds of adversity. But this may have been her breaking point.

Jorge apologized.

I apologized.

The HB apologized for both of us.

An international incident was narrowly avoided.

Eventually I did what any sensible man would do.

I ordered a ribeye. And broccoli. And carrots. Foods whose identities could be independently verified.

As God has intended.

So now we're packing. Soon we'll leave paradise behind and head home. But we'll be taking amazing memories with us. Friends who feel like family. Laughs that'll last for years.

And apparently a new restaurant policy requiring the HB's approval before I am allowed to interact with menus.

Honestly?

Probably for the best.

Until next time, Chroniclers. You knowhat to do!

Drink 'em if you got 'em!

#coffeehousechronicles