Dining with thin friends

They are among us. Although they seem to be our friends, they are born of out-worldly pods, as they can voraciously, and without regard, consume anything remaining stationary long enough to be pierced by a fork — and not gain an ounce. Be watchful, and you too shall come across them.

I share this recent restaurant encounter:

ME (after a prolonged, stressful, internal dialog between stomach and brain): "I'll have the salad, fat free dressing — on the side. No croutons or cheese."

WAITER: "Would you like anything else?"

ME (sighing): "Yes, a great many things, mostly sweet and fried; but I shall re-sist yet again as part of the unending torture of trying to knock off the same lousy few pounds. And please take away the basket of bread rolls."

WAITER (addressing Disgustingly Thin Friend Of Mine): "What will you have sir?"

DTFOM (reclaiming the rolls and dipping them in oil): "The BCGE."

WAITER: "Ah, the bucket of cholesterol and grease extravaganza, excellent. Extra butter and melted cheese?"

DTFOM: "Of course. I'd also like the city-size order of fries, egg roll platter, and double onion rings."

Both are drawn to look at me as the sound of my forehead banging a slow, pa-thetic, rhythmic cadence on the table has attracted attention.

DTFOM (to waiter): "I'd also like a supreme-double-vanilla-mocha-deluxe, extra sugar and whipped cream; and the 'Death by Chocolate' four-pound, six-layer, ice cream and cookie cake, family reunion size."

Upon return, the waiter piles 36 platters of food on the table. To do so requires a rolling serving platter, stand-up folding tray, and three burley assistants. Finally, he squeezes out a miserly few square inches and places down my platter of "rabbit food." (If I seem bitter, I can assure you it only happens during periods of low blood sugar.)

WAITER: "Anything else gentlemen?"

DTFOM: "Not now. But come back, I might still be hungry." As the waiter de-parts, DTFOM reminds me to close my chops, the slack-jaw appearance is un-appealing.

DTFOM smothers his servings with spices, sauces, and sugars. I finish my miserly smattering of wilted lettuce, two cucumber slices, and a cherry tomato, before his first bite. With stomach growling, and inner child on full-throttle cranky, I succumb to my desires and lightly request, "Would you mind if I had a French fry?"

"Not at all," he replies, "but what about your diet?"