If I were making a list of the rules at our house, one you'd find near the top would be There shall be no cooking on Friday nights. I don't think it pre-dates our marriage but it started soon afterwards. The work week was over, there were no night classes to attend and, most importantly, Friday was payday. It didn't matter so much where we went, just that we weren't cooking and cleaning up at home.
That tradition has continued long after jobs ended along with the paydays that went with them. So it was a normal thing this past Friday night to find us heading to Pensacola for dinner with our friends, Michael and Charlotte.
We decided we'd try out a new Mexican restaurant...so new, in fact, that it was only their second night of service. A good number of other people had the same idea as there was a crowd waiting to be seated but we were happy to dine outside on the patio where tables were available. A cool front had brought gentle breezes and lower humidity so it was a delightful place to wait longer than we might have otherwise liked for our meal to be served.
Big signs out front and on the menu were promoting their signature drink...margaritas in lots of pretty colors and tasty combinations. While Friday night means eating out, it seldom means drinking too but we could see things weren't moving very fast so we decided to imbibe.
A young man in the most neon pink shirt you've ever seen came to take our order. I swear we didn't need lights on the patio where we were seated; his shirt glowed enough to light it all up. Around the table we went, making our selections of Mexican spirits which he attentively wrote down on his pad.
Then he paused....and asked for our IDs.
I laughed. And laughed again. I seriously thought about getting up and going over to hug him as I can't remember the last time someone required proof that I was old enough to drink. Then again, it hasn't been that long ago that someone thought I was my brother's daughter, not his sister. I laughed then too...and again every time I think about it.
Actually, we all laughed at the waiter's request as we all are retired. The joke could have been on me, however, as I was the only one without an ID. As I told the waiter, I was with Wayne. He was driving and he was paying; why did I need to carry my purse? Apparently my head full of gray hair was enough to convince him I was of a legal drinking age. My twisted margarita (sangria and traditional margarita mixed) was quite refreshing when it finally arrived.
I'm guessing the owners had impressed on their new staff not to guess at ages and to ask for ID on liquor sales and that's an admiral policy to have. I'd rather they card me than sell alcohol to a teen who looks older than she is. Wayne had a different theory: The waiter was dishing out compliments in the hopes of a bigger tip. I don't think Mr. Neon-Pink-Shirt was that shrewd.
The request did, however, add an amusing twist to our Friday night dinner...and who doesn't need to laugh out loud now and then.