Monday, March 17, 2008

Flirting Shamelessly

Sometimes it amazes me that women really look out for each other. Even total strangers. The female race is one giant sorority whose sisters have unfairly earned a reputation for being catty bitches towards each other (mainly, I think, due to reality TV). But every once in a while, I get the feeling that those sisters are all just kindred spirits. ...Okay, so that feeling probably makes me a total pollyanna, but it also makes me grateful to belong to the gentler sex.

Today was Cheshire Kitty's birthday. And since she and the boy are still on the rocks (I won't even go into that, as the status changes what seems like hourly), she decided she'd rather have me join her for her birthday dinner reservation at hyper-masculine, protein-fueled, not-for-the-faint-of-appetite Brazilian churrascaria, Fogo de Chão.

Enter our waiter. I recount the following with the full understanding that it will read like a bad St. Patrick's Day cliché, but we had what has to be the cutest Irish waiter this side of the Emerald Isle. And I've yet to meet a woman who wouldn't melt at the sound of a delightful Irish accent, especially one attached to a wine-plying waiter who flirted shamelessly with Cheshire Kitty, even winking at her without a hint of outdated irony. He offered to help us select a wine, describing South American cabernets in a brogue that truly should be illegal.

"Wow. If I were a guy, I would not be able to stand up right now," declared Cheshire Kitty, as soon as he left to find our wine selection.

And after half a bottle each of said Argentinian red, plus after-dinner drinks and about two pounds of red meat each, I encouraged her to give him her phone number. But she hesitated, saying that she still didn't know what was happening with the boy. Commendable, I thought, and I backed off.

But she still wondered his name, imagining it to be some Guinness-soaked stereotype like Seamus, but insatiably curious nonetheless. On our way out the door after what was a truly memorable (albeit pricey) meal, she stopped at the hostess stand.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be forward," Cheshire Kitty offered, "but we had a wonderful server and I'm curious to know his name. Tall, heavy Irish accent..."

"His name's Daniel," replied the pretty Brazilian hostess. "And I don't mean to be forward, but..." she paused, choosing her words carefully, "...I wouldn't recommend."

"I'm sorry?" said Cheshire Kitty.

The hostess paused again but repeated the same words, emphasizing them carefully. "I would not recommend." Then she smiled.

"I see," said Cheshire Kitty. "Thank you... thanks very much." And we took leave of the steakhouse, heading towards the metro.

It was so simple. A cryptic warning against a smoking-hot yet presumably womanizing Irishman with an accent that must drop panties on a regular basis, issued by a woman who had nothing to gain by telling us so. And I thought about how sweet the gesture was, in this modern world where women are thought to be two-faced, backstabbing bitches and hos. A world in which strangers sell each other down the river for iPhones and off-street parking.

Kind of boosts my faith in womankind. But it also shows me just how magnetic cute, international strangers with exotic accents can be in foreign cities.

...Maybe I should move to Dublin.

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