Let’s start with the facts: I’m not racist. I know you’re both black, or at least various shades on not-white, unlike everyone else in this restaurant. But that’s not why I can’t stop watching you. Sure, okay, it’s kind of why I noticed you in the first place. But you’re also wearing sweatshirts and knit hats to an expensive meal. Was the bowtie in the laundry? I kid, I kid – it’s not like I’m dressed for success either. I’m white, though, so I probably get some leeway in the eyes of the other diners.
Still not racist.
I’m curious why you chose this expensive steakhouse for dinner, though. Obviously, steak is delicious and, as a fellow man, I completely understand the appeal of clogging your colon with a heaping pile of undercooked red meat. It’s the same reason we love guns and watching women make out with each other – it makes our penises seem bigger. Ain’t a thing wrong with that. But it seems like there’s got to be another restaurant out there that would be happy to serve you a thick slice of sirloin without the confusing addition of bread that isn’t white. Yes, I noticed that, dudes. I noticed when you poked at the loaf of pumpernickel after the waiter set it on the table. Jabbing at it with a careful finger as if it might detonate. Fear not, it’s just bread. Although, lets be honest, pumpernickel is no one’s favorite.
I also noticed when you ordered a glass of red wine, friend in the red cap. Good, I thought, a nice dark Cab is the perfect companion to a thick slab of beef. You took a sip and your mouth contorted as if something foul filled the glass. Was the wine spoiled, corked? Did you take a drink of harsh vinegar? Ah no, it would appear the wine was too warm, too strong. Smart move, sliding some ice out of your water glass into the wine. That’ll tamp it down a bit.
I’m sorry, I’m being judgmental. Really, I should be jealous of your vibrant discussion and clear enjoyment of the evening. Look at the table next to you – a wealthy white couple who didn’t like their table and are now staring sullenly at anything but each other. Later, they’ll go home to their vast, empty mansion and have passionless sex while thinking about spreadsheets (her) and Jamie Dornan (him). Somewhere on the other side of the house, a pack of chihuahuas will yip incessantly. Meanwhile, you guys keep gesticulating like men with Tourette’s, wide grins accessorizing your laughing chorus. There’s a good chance your plans for the evening involve friends, booze, and loud music. Sure you don’t fit this restaurant’s mold, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping you from having an excellent evening. Would that we all could be so unselfconscious! Would that we all could so comfortably defy cultural norms. Would that we all could accept two dudes enjoying a meal together in an upscale steakhouse without noticing ethnicity, without considering class, without wondering if they wandered in the wrong door.
Enjoy your meal, guys. You’re broadening my horizons.