Thursday, March 08, 2007

My dinner with Elliott

If you are more interested in food than scuttlebut jump straight to the review.

It was a very nice restaurant made exclusive, not by the price but due to the fact that you have to book, no matter how many vacant spots you come across if you ever wander into the place on the off chance of a meal.

A friend and I were catching up. We’d planned the night out for months and finally after a pre-dinner drink at a little bar, we pushed back the heavy, anonymous door off a skanky laneway and descended into the minimalist confines of fine Japanese dining.

The food, little morsels of flavour, was delicious. The wine a bargain, a Leeuwn estate art series riesling going for a song. We sipped, chatted, laughed and occasionally observed our fellow diners who sat at the wooden wrap around bar. At one point we noted 4 seats away we’d been joined by a rather notorious business identity and his impeccably groomed younger partner. As he chugged back very good red wine, I commented quietly how I looked forward to being able to eat here if I ever became bankrupt.

The night continued with more conversation and little dishes. Then a booming ocker voice pulled us out of our discussion with a demand “What are you two celebrating?” Us? Yes us. “Women always talk at the same time, never listen and you move your arms around too”, he proclaimed. It appeared he was not acquainted with the concept of multitasking and as for the not listening part, rather a case of the pot calling the kettle black it transpired. The demands continued, "Why aren’t you at home cooking for your ‘husbands’?" I laughed trying to imagine the Not Boyfriend cast in the defenceless spouse role, wasting away waiting for me to come home and feed him. We politely tried to bat off his intrusions. But between gulps of more red, he continued. “What do you do?” (he had obtained that we were not in fact house wives and actually had some kind of careers).

I don’t like talking about work to strangers at a party, let alone booming across a restaurant. I tried to side step but insisted. When I quietly coughed up, the next command was to “tell me in 30 seconds what a …does”. I’d had enough by now and sweetly said “No, tell me in 30 seconds what its like to be bankrupt*”.

By now my friend was laughing so much she had to dip her head below the counter to pretend to rebuckle her shoe.

He laughed and told us he’d had a good day, made some money. (Good news for your creditors I thought).

He eventually stumbled outside to have a smoke. We headed back to our private conversation, giggling a little from the encounter.

But it didn’t end there, over the course of the next hour we were interrupted with more banter ranging through the gamit of how John Howard was the best prime minister ever (well he once was president of the Liberal party), how aboriginals are bludgers and “we should have shot the lot of them” (though conceding later that a few of them made fine football players), that the prime minister of New Zealand is a dyke (“Oh so a lesbian is incapable of running a country? I lobbed back). On it went. Despite pegging me for a ‘left wing socialist’ he seemed to enjoy the exchange.

He appeared a little taken aback as my friend and I prepared to leave that I paid my share of dinner in cash. His eyes leapt across the room “Cash!” he exclaimed, so I pulled out a wad to show him what it looked like. “I bet that tax man never sees that” (Well actually, I am very ethical when it comes to such things, but should I take business advice from the man who was once at the pinnacle of capitalism in this country I wondered?) “No, let The Bank (my friend’s employer) pay for it”. Ah, we were meant to rort big companies, that’s how you do it ( that explains why bank fees are so high). I took this uncalled for advice from the big man to ponder on later.

At the end of the night, his silent companion quietly slipped out the Amex card and took him home.

* actually though he didn't correct me at the time, I should have termed that question in the past tense as that week his creditors accepted a mere 2.5 cents in every one of the 7.6 million dollars he owed.

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4 Comments:

Blogger GoAwayPlease said...

oh you've made my day.
what a hoot. thank you.

Bankruptcy has been on my mind a bit lately. Not because my card debt equals my annual income, but because the eulogised popstar who died this week, fled the country owing $4million in 1970's dollars and nobody mentioned that at any of the events Mike Chugg drummed up around his death.
Bankruptcy has never been 'social death'.
Now, why would the female companion be bothered with the man - that's my question.
Not physically attractive,
an oaf,
Two ex-wives,
Loud in public,
chats-up other women while dining,
etc etc.

It disturbs me that the Miss-Louise-Shoes type of woman who dines out with men as above, would not see the joke when she deplores pregnant teens in Broady making the wrong choices in men.

3:35 pm  
Blogger Another Outspoken Female said...

I reckon shes a long time companion with just a few of his assets buried in her name, after all the poor fellow hasn't a cent to his but can live a very nice life thank you very much.

She did look more than a little embarrassed by him at times. But in that reserved but beautiful way which I will never be able to master in my life time.

Any way, not a single bum slap or "pigs arse" the whole - perhaps he's slowing down?

4:36 pm  
Blogger JahTeh said...

How revolting for the rest of the diners. Brownie is right, the man's an oaf and appalling rude as if it was okay to talk to two women across a room because 'he' was 'him'. Did he do that to any of the men dining?

He's described himself beautifully, he's a real pig's arse.

3:20 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

a male friend recounted a story about a year ago of one john elliot, shouting across a crowded restaurant of the same name, "what are you doing with such a beautiful girl. you don't deserve her!"

4:24 pm  

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