Killing Vicky

Shenanigans. That’s the best word I can think of to describe the category of activity in which I most like to participate. Most of the time, I can’t help it. It just comes naturally, and I’m powerless against it. I would dare say, at least half the time, shenanigans happen to me instead of my making them happen. I’m fortunate to have married someone who is also pretty much always up for shenanigans. What’s more, over the course of my lifetime, I’ve managed to cultivate a circle of friends who can best be described as shenanigan-inclined. If you asked me how it came to be this way, I couldn’t begin to tell you. All I know is, when presented with a situation that could go down the straight and narrow or turn into something completely ridiculous, my friends almost always take the latter path. And there I am, sprinting along beside them.

Take for instance a particular visit to the beach with our friends Elizabeth and Chris (Chreeyas, affectionately). Most of the drive, my husband and I had talked up this seafood restaurant where we wanted to take them. “It’s old school, with a giant marlin on the wall.” “They bring you the martini and the ‘ice’ so you don’t miss a drop.” “The waitresses all call you ‘hon’.” By the time we crossed the Bay Bridge and had entered the miles of cornfields on the way, our mouths were watering for the crab imperial and stuffed flounder we would enjoy. In fact, I think we drove straight to the restaurant, so much were we salivating. 

Imagine our surprise when we got there and it had a new name, brighter lights, and was called Something Something Brew Pub*. Our beloved retro haunt had been sold after its previous owner died and his wife wanted nothing to do with it. (Isn’t that always what happens to those great old places? So often, families don’t want to run family businesses after the champion has moved on. So many fabulous haunts have shuttered, leaving nothing but nostalgia in their wakes.) Anyway, we decided to give it a shot and see if it was any good. 

Our waitress came over and introduced herself and handed us menus. She left while we perused the offerings. One only needed to read “bacon jam” and “balsamic reduction” to know this wasn’t the food we were looking for. There weren’t any deep fried clam strips or oysters Rockafeller or cream of crab soup. None of us wanted crab cocktail with mango salsa. Or a pork chop with apple glacee. Everything was just a little too modern. We wanted old school Eastern Shore seafood. Sure, brew pubs were fine in the city, but we’d come craving nostalgia, and dammit, nostalgia we would have. 

We quickly identified a more desirable restaurant and plotted our escape. But we had to act fast. We didn’t want to insult our server. We were too polite to just walk out (though, in retrospect, I’m not sure why…). So we had to concoct a story. (Shenanigan!) 

That’s when we decided to get “an emergency phone call”.  It was decided that I would be the recipient of the call. I was talking to the Imaginary Caller when the server returned to the table. “What? Oh no.” [insert silence while waiting for Imaginary Caller to give Tragic Details.] My husband and friends looked at me in abject misery. “A car accident? Oh no! Is she okay?” [More silence.] Elizabeth was apoplectic, “Honey, not Vicky? Is she okay?” I shrugged, and stage-whispered, “I think we better go.” Our server was fully engaged. I stood up and started to walk out, still talking to the Imaginary Caller, “We’ll meet you at the hospital.” I could hear Elizabeth apologizing and saying there’d been an accident, and we had to leave. At that point, my eyes had begun to tear up. I’m not sure if it was Vicky’s fate or hysteria. My husband and Chreeyas followed us in Very Deep Concern.

Once we got into the car, we all dissolved into giggles. “Who...is...Vicky?” someone gasp-asked through fits of laughter. I couldn’t speak through the gulps of air and the tears freely rolling down my face. None of us knew who Vicky was, but we had definitely killed her. All to get out of having arugula with goat cheese and a beet marmalade. 

After more fits of laughter, we decided on a seafood house that would at least be closer to what we were craving than where we had started the evening. We sat down, ready to pour one out for our homie, Vicky, when our waitress approached our table. 

“Hi, I’m Victoria, and I’ll be your server this evening.” 

That was it. We all lost it. And poor Victoria had no idea what on earth had set us off. 

To this day, whenever any of us hears the name Vicky (or Victoria), it serves as a reminder of a ridiculous dinner that never was. Of our poor Imaginary Friend, dead on the side of the road. And the waitress who thought we were definitely already drunk before we’d had our first cocktail. 

I wouldn’t trade my shenanigans for all the money in the world. Or my friends who indulge in them with me. 

*name changed (or forgotten) to protect the brand