Lobster Trap

Remember the episode on the Dick Van Dyke show when Laura was peeved that Dick always grabbed the check?  She accused him of wanting to buy peoples’ affection by constantly picking up the tab.

Good guy Dick countered by saying that when women went out to lunch, NO ONE paid the check.

“You had the chicken salad, and you had the fruit plate, and I had the tuna on whole wheat…,” he mimicked the women trying desperately- but equally- to split the check.

I always laugh when I see this. Dick might have been on to something.

These days, I go out with women a lot.  Not a man in sight.  And if we’re sharing, the dining ground rules are pretty clear.  We all order entrees around the same price.

And even though I don’t drink anything harder than a Diet Coke, if the girls want to have a glass of wine or a dirty martini, of course they can.

The meal usually comes to an end with one dessert- and a couple of forks.

Then the check is evenly split.

Easy enough.

And if I’m treating, you can have anything you want.  That’s it.

To date, no one has tried to stick me with a pricey bottle of vino.  So far so good.

When I was married to Bill, our dinner social life was pretty much based on the “your turn to pick up the check/my turn” maxim.  We had a close group of friends with whom we would trade off paying for the dinner.

Our go-to couples ate and drank about the same amount as we did. Both food-wise and dollar amount wise.  The wife was usually good for one glass of white wine, the husband a cocktail or two.  Nothing much more.

And if someone wanted to order an expensive bottle of wine, they would tell us upfront that they were going to pay for it themselves.

Fine.

Those were the guidelines, and everyone seemed pretty comfortable with them.  It had nothing to do with solvency.  All the men were well-heeled.

It was more like a dining fairness doctrine.

Mooch Sidebar:  Once upon a dinner time, a glitzy Chicago couple decided that they wanted to get to know us better.  The wife called me and set up a dinner date.  We went, they ordered a $300 bottle of wine (which they consumed à deux) and when the bill came, they wanted to split it.

50-50.

As the men paid up, one of them made an allusion to “next time.”

There wasn’t going to be any next time.

Bill didn’t appreciate getting stuck with their expensive drinking habits.

And don’t get me wrong.  He was a sport when it came to hosting.  If he was treating, the sky was the limit.  He just didn’t like being made to feel like a sap.

My “Separate But Equal” rule didn’t just apply to the bar tab, either.

Many years ago, we attended some black tie gala event.  (I don’t remember which one.  In those days, we were always going to black tie charity events.  Bill had six tuxedos, and he used to joke that if his business failed, he could always find work as a maitre d’- or a magician.)

Anyway, it was de rigueur not to eat much at these affairs.  The luke warm tenderloin and so-so salmon combo was usually indifferent, and it was much more fun to table-hop, dance or just make small talk with your table mates.  Food really never entered the picture.

Afterwards, a few of us might adjourn to a nearby restaurant for a late supper.  Always better eats- and a way to keep the fun and glamor of the night going.

After this particular soirée, Bill and I decided to grab a bite before heading home.  Along with my brother Kenny and my sister-in-law, Mary Lu, Neil B. and his then-wife Barbara, and another couple.

For the sake of this post, I’ll call them “Ted” and “Alice.”

The eight of us headed to the Palm– then located in the Mayfair Regent Hotel on East Lake Shore Drive.

I had the Gigi Salad.  It was by now 10:00 p.m. and I didn’t feel like tackling anything heftier.  The other ladies did the same, as I recall.

The men went a little heartier.  Pasta, I think.  Or they shared an entree.  At least three of then did.

Ted ordered a lobster.

A whole one.

For himself.

It was $85- even back in those days.

And when the waiter brought the check, and the four guys threw their plastic down on it, Ted made no mention of the fact that his entree was triple the price of anyone else’s.

He counted on the fact that there was crustacean safety in numbers, and that guys will be guys.  And, of course, the three non-lobster-consuming men just dutifully paid their portion of the tab.

(I do remember Kenny slyly giving me a wink when the waiter brought the credit cards back.  He showed me how he had deftly pulled back Neil’s credit card toward him- and pretended to stash it in his own wallet.

Since Neil B. is tied with Mark Cuban at number 222 on the Forbes Rich List, I could see that his credit card limit would be way more than Kenny’s.  It was a funny sight gag- although Kenny did eventually return it to its rightful owner.  Good one.)

But the next day Kenny was livid- and as red as a lobster.

“The nerve of Ted,” he fumed.  “He knew we would have to pay for his meal.  How dare he order a whole lobster when everyone else was having a salad?’

“Why do you think he did it?” I asked.  Ted, after all, was a friend of Kenny’s.  Not mine.

“He’s a cheap s.o.b.  He liked the idea of scamming us into paying for his meal.”

“Well, I hope he enjoyed it, because it’s the last lobster he’s ever going to get out of us,” I stated firmly.

And it was.  We never went out with Ted and Alice again.

The dining rules of the game take no prisoners.

Now order me a bottle of Möet & Chandon Bi Centenary Cuvée Imperial 1943 and we’ll call it a day.

Cheers.