Girls' Night Out

"Ten bucks he doesn't remember why he has my name and number tomorrow," I said sauntering out of the restaurant we held girls' night also known as Fat Friday and God-I-Really-Need-A-Cosmo-After-The-Week-I-Had. I know I am in a committed relationship going on seven years, but come on, he was so cute! I had to give him my number...

***

"I love this place," my friend said as we sat down near the hull of the pirate ship. "Let's split something."

Considering that all the food is cooked in a glorified Fry Daddy or is dipped in cheese, we decided on one of each. It all started with three friends sitting at a bar, a seemingly innocuous Cosmo handed to me by a bartender named Lisa, and our own personal fondue pot at 9 p.m. As we fished in the boiling oil for the escaping piece of vegetable or to rescue the meat that sat in there too long, we caught up life, work and love, bubbling over with stories like the hot oil. 

"Oh look! That's Dante!" my friend exclaims. The four of turn in our seats to see a little older gentleman dressed as a sea captain posing in front of his ship next to a guy throwing up deuces and making a duck face. Dante makes his way around the restaurant, greeting patrons, shaking hands and making conversation. He hits our seats at the bar.

"Hello ladies! Are you all having a good time?" he asks. We answered that of course we were.

"Well what are your names and what do you?" are the next questions we answer. He left us for a bit. While he was gone, I got tired of the clips hold my hair. I pulled them out, letting my frizzy waves to fall around my face. He came back, ordered a Coke from the bartender and grabbed some of my hair. "You have beautiful hair!" he said. "I used to cut my sisters' hair for them growing up. I love cutting hair. Your's is so thick. I bet it would be fun to cut."

Then he regaled us with the story of how he got his name (something to do with his music director father discovering an Italian boy for some chorus, then meeting him again in the Great War...). We were enthralled. This socialite man is incredibly interesting, having created a restaurant that stands as a tribute to his networking skills; there are pictures of him with Jimmy Carter and magazine covers with his face on it. 

Next thing I know, we are poking around his office upstairs, which is cluttered with an eclectic mix of bottles, artifacts from trips to Africa, pictures and piles of papers. We were there to meet his giant fluffy white dog, who comes to work with him everyday. 

"I live on a 1920s train car. Beautiful thing. It has a marble bathtub," he said, stories transitioning from his charity work in Africa to save the cheetahs to traveling along the railways in luxury train cars. 

"Give me your number and we'll get together so I can cut your hair. You can come to my house and we'll do it on a Sunday."

I gave him my number and the girls and I trailed out of the restaurant.

"I promise I'll go with you," my friend said on our way to our cars. 

Four weeks later and he still hasn't called. I'm a little bummed that I don't get to hear more of this man's story because he obviously forgot why he wrote down my name and phone number.