The table setting was pristine. The crystal wine glasses were symmetrically lined along the top of the knives, the cutlery was exactly perpendicular to the edge of the table and the cloth napkins were starched to perfection.
(image credit: anselmovineyards.com)
Slivers of the fading sunlight cascaded over the place settings and the room lay in wait for the dinner guests to arrive. Candles were lit, classical music undulated through the air and the mood was perfect.
The first of the guests arrived and were anxious to be seated. Pair by pair, the dinner guests filtered into the restaurant and found their place at the exquisitely set dining table. The host for the evening smiled as everyone took their seats and, once the group had settled, he introduced himself and the winery he represented. He explained how a Winemakers Dinner worked and that each course presented from the kitchen would be perfectly married with a wine that he had selected to enhance the flavor of the dish. An excited buzz was heard going around the table.
The amuse-bouche was delivered and the evening began. Course after course was delivered and, indeed, made better by the wine selection. As I leaned in to clear the last course served I noticed a woman moving in a strange way across the table. Her bizarre twitching had caught the attention of several of the dinner guests as well but had been dismissed by all but me.
I tried my best to distract myself with my job but I could not completely pull my gaze from her odd behavior. Her husband had been sitting to her left and was deeply engaged in conversation with the person to his left so he missed the entire show.
I did my best to clear the remainder of the table and turned one more time to witness the end result of the bizarre dinner dance this woman had been performing in her seat. In one final fluid motion, she reached up her left sleeve and pulled out her bra!
I’m not sure, to this day, if I had been more shocked by the fact that she had not left the 30-person dinner party to make herself more comfortable in a private setting, or by the fact that her husband only shrugged and smiled at the erratic direction of her moral compass.
I guess we all have to march to the beat of our own drummer!