As some of you may be able to tell, I'm not one of those people that gets off on finery. Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate many fine things (a Monet, a glass of Johnny Walker Blue, a Carrera GT), but I have a low threshold for truly senseless opulence.

My parents love fine dining. I think they always have, because my dad used to say that before he had kids, mom would make him all kinds of gourmet dishes. Since we've all moved out, I've also noticed a change in the cuisine over there - it's much more delicate cuisine than it used to be. At any rate, they've taken to going out and eating at all these fancy local places. Some are good, some are great (one place had this awesome shrimp and grits - fucking stellar), and some...well, some are so horrible they're blogworthy.

They call me up and invite the fiancee and I to dinner. It was one of those French and Chinese fusion places, so I kind of new I was in for tiny portions and pretty plating. I couldn't really make out the name of the place, but it sounded like French for "I just shit myself". 'Course, me being somewhat adventurous and more than a little cheap, I ain't turning down no free dinner. We agree to meet them at seven.

When we walk in the place, mom and dad have yet to arrive, so we grab some stools at the bar. I see they've got Stella Artois on tap and I distinctly remember Paul recommending it or something at some point in the past. So I decide I'll have a few pints in preparation for what will probably be some nastyass, new age, fag food. Good beer always helps me prepare for these kinds of restraunts. In college, I once ate a live grasshopper after drinking twelve Heineken's.

A few rounds later, the parents walk in and we seat ourselves at a table.

The decor was fit for a McDonalds on Fifth Avenue. They sat us down at a table that already had people at it. The seats against the wall were built-in, booth style. The seats that me and the old lady were sitting in were these big bulky stools with no backs on them and giant cushions on the seat. There was barely enough room for your knees to fit between the stool and the bottom of the tabletop; I should've just stayed at the goddamn bar. The hostess takes the drink order and I decide to go visit the bathroom.

I open the door to the bathroom and am pleasantly surprised. It's very nice in here, except for the fact that the door seems like it needs a good shove before it'll latch. But this is one of those historic buildings downtown, so that's to be expected. They've got a hamper for dirty hand towels (the bathroom is stocked with terrycloth towels, no paper here buddy), a stylish sink and countertop, and best of all, it's a one-person setup. I don't have to share the bathroom with other clientele, and we all know there's nothing worse than trying not to laugh while some dude is shitting his ass off in one of the stalls. I break the seal and get back to the table to find the ladies drinking wine, dad nursing his scotch, and a freshly topped off glass of Stella.

When they deliver the menus, I can hardly make them out. Mind you, I had three years of classical Latin, so most romance langugages I can usually make out in writing. This is some hodge podge of english, french, and chinese. I start laughing and poking fun at the menu. Everyone gets a kick out of it, I motion to the bartender to bring me another Stella, and my old man refreshes his scotch. I'm feeling good now, loose, ready to consume whatever weird concoction I end up ordering.

The salads come first, and I tried to dodge a bullet by ordering their version of a house salad. Okay - what I received was a bunch of dandelion leaves with a - get this - dark marinated fish fillet thrown on top. 'Course, by this time I'd already swam my way through a goodly few pints of Stella, and I would've eaten my own shoelaces if that's what they'd served. I go for the greens first, and then take a bite of the fish. It was the saltiest shit I'd ever had in my life. I have no idea how much soy it takes to kill a fish, but I'm pretty sure that's how this bastard ended up on my salad. They didn't even cook the fucker, just threw him in a tank of Kikkoman until he went belly up. The waitress brings my beer over, and I grab it off her tray before she can hand it to me. With one hand, I'm slamming my beer and with the other I'm motioning to the bartender to bring me another. Good Christ, I had to drink a beer in between every bite of that cured flounder or whatever it was. By the time I've finished the salad, my ears are ringing, and things are getting a little bubbly. But we're having fun, good conversation, joking, so it's all good. I order another Stella. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom again. Once inside I pee for what seems like an eternity. My fucking legs are getting tired for cryin' out loud. I hit the bar on my way back to the table for another beer.

When the main course arrives, I'm fully primed. I can't really remember what I ordered, but it looks like leg of lamb with some frilly shit thrown about the plate. Great, I like meat. The lamb was tender enough, but it was garnished with this sauce that tasted like orange peel. I like oranges just as much as the next guy, but I tend not to eat them with my lamb. On the other hand, it came on this huge bone - nothing better than meat with handles. It allows a person to eat with one hand and drink with the other. I decide that I'll opt out of the silverware in protest of that orange peel nonesense, and begin eating the lamb with my hands. The waitress swings by to see if everything's okay, and I manage to garble out that I'd like another beer, but I had a mouthful of lamb so it came out like "Ki'venotherStellehplez".

We roll right straight through the main course, everyone drinking and talking and having a grand ol' time. I clear off my plate, finish the last swill of beer, and like any person who's completely satisfied, I go to lean back in my chair. 'Course, the goddamn artsy-fartsy designers decided to go with those idiotic backless stools, so I damn near topple right down the back side of this glorified hassock. I decide to play it off, and hop off the stool and head for the bathroom. Now, it gets a little fuzzy here. I'll admit though, that I'm pretty sure I pissed in the towel hamper. I can't quite recall, because I remember pissing in the hamper, but I also remember flushing the toilet. However, I wouldn't put it past myself to piss in the hamper and then, in such a drunken state, flush the toilet. At any rate, I splash some water on my face at the sink, hit the bar on the way back to the table, and find that the waitress has already brought me another glass.

Everyone orders dessert, but I decide I better stick to my beer.
"Oh, by the way, what's the name of this place again?" I ask.
"Tango du Chat," says mom with her French accent.
"Tango du what?!" I ask. Then I feel a little gurgle in my stomach, and I know that soy fish salad I had is about to make it's presence known.

I wait a few minutes to see if the rumbling will subside, but it only becomes worse. At this point I'm beginning to sweat, and the internal urgency that I reach a toilet has become unbearable.
"Man, that fish ain't treating me right," I blurt to the table. "Be right back." I make a beeline for the bathroom.

You ever realize that when you really have to go, it gets worse the closer you get to the toilet? What a cruel trick. I scoot inside the bathroom, wing the door shut, and plop squarely onto the toilet seat. The stuff that came out of my body that night still haunts my dreams. It sounded like someone was pouring buckets of chowder in the toilet, and there was a groaning coming from inside me that reminded me of a sinking ocean liner. After a few minutes of sweet release, I'm feel myself coming back to normal. I reach for the toilet paper when some hideous jackass come bounding through the bathroom door - I'd forgotten to make sure the door latched properly. For a split second we lock eyes: I stare up at him with a hatred so intense that it's timeless, reaching out for the toilet paper, my ass up off the seat, God knows what horrible odors escaping from the bowl below; and he looks down, horrified, astonished, hurting almost. He slams the door shut.

A few minutes later I come back to the table. My old man ribs me, "Everything come out okay there buddy?" Mom and the fiancee laugh.
"Well old man, let's just say they don't call it Tango du Shat for nothing."