Chicken and Wine

Jo and I ate at Max’s Restaurant at Quezon Ave. a little while. We decided on ordering their Pancit Canton, rather than their Pinakbet, which was our perennial healthy dish in the midst of all the chicken being served there. It was good, too good in fact, that it makes me think there’s something artificial about it. While eating, a group sat beside us. They were behind me so Jo was the only one who can see them. But the voice of the Foreigner in the group was so loud I really didn’t need any visuals anymore. The foreigner was heckling the waiter on why there wasn’t any wine in the menu. “Don’t you use any wine in your cooking?” He asked. When he couldn’t get anything out of the waiter, he resigned himself and ordered a San Mig beer. “Guess I have to be in me good manners tonight then.” I jotted on the napkin, asking Jo if he was with a small beautiful pinay. More than that, she wrote back. He was with what looks like her Mom.

So who was he with? One can only guess to the limits of assumption and one’s personal life. Jo hoped he was with the mom as he was near her age rather than the daughter.

He went on rambling things about London, his chest hair and about the wine again. Red wine in particular.