Since when did it become impossible to enjoy lewd verbal foreplay at lunch, or a nooner if you’re getting technical? At a snazzy New York watering hole with The Impresario one afternoon, you couldn’t get a smutty word in edgewise between the fanfare required to introduce each course and the endless queries to see if everything was okay.
Like a virgin who has memorized the sex manual, our waiter – or “server” – had all the right moves and all the wrong timing. I began to feel that I was responsible for his happiness rather than he for mine. Might he plunge into despair if I reported a soggy cheese croquette? He obviously hadn’t picked up on the cue that this lunch was but a snack before the main event – a detail any French waiter would not have failed to miss.