Just Desserts! Maybe?

I like little kids. I do. Just because I’m a prickly-assed waitress at a high-falutin restaurant—well worth all its falutin I might add—doesn’t mean I don’t like kids. But they have their time and place and unless they’re extremely well-behaved their place is not here where people are paying good money to have a luxurious meal with expensive wines and relax.

And these parents take the cake. First, they ordered the kid a quesadilla, which in some chain restaurant would have been a good choice, but here? What little kid wants a smoked gouda and sweet onion quesadilla with cilantro pesto? Obviously not this one. He tossed a helping at his mother. Nice.

“We’ve talked about this,” I heard her tell him. “When we’re out we don’t toss food.”

I couldn’t help but wonder if it was okay at home. What must their walls look like? A graffiti of multi-hued foods?

For dinner, I conned Ewan into making chicken nuggets, which doesn’t take much conning, but Kate went ballistic. Her little meltdown of sweetness the other day has fallen into the abyss of the near past. Why Ewan stays with her? I don’t know. Seriously. He’s such a great guy. I’m sure that Kate must have issues and that she can be a remarkable person, but I have over the past seven months yet to see any sign of that. But Ewan? With that Scottish accent, dark ginger hair, and blue, blue eyes? And that’s just looks, match those with being loveable and funny? Okay, maybe I have a little crush, but I’ll never mention it, let alone act on it.

I place the chicken nuggets and French fries, another thing we don’t do, in front of the sandy haired imp. He wrinkles his nose. “I need ketchup.”

Ketchup? Do we even have that?

His mother frowns at me. “Well, for cripe’s sake, you got to have ketchup.”

“Do we look like McDonald’s?” I ask her.

Her husband laughs, she darts an ugly glare at him. He immediately stops smiling.

“Ketchup! Now!” yells the little boy.

“Freaking hell,” I say, maybe a little too loudly before darting away.

Ewan produces a bottle of the red stuff, probably the only one in house, and I go scrambling back to the table, hoping they will be quiet so the other patrons can have a happy meal, and no, the phrase “happy meal” is not lost on me, when I see the kid lob the dish of cilantro pesto over his father’s head.

I run. I don’t know. Maybe I figure that I’m an all-star centerfielder about to make the catch of my career, but I’m too late. The saucer dumps its contents onto Mr. Friedman. Mr. Alan Friedman, the well-known cutthroat lawyer. He stands up and stares at the couple and then at me as I finally make it to his table.

“This. This is why we can’t have nice things. People who have children who are rude and undisciplined. Why do they take such a child into public? He’s a nuisance now, and I am certain that in the future I will be defending someone who takes his revenge on this little monster.”

Now the little monster’s mother stands up. “How dare you? My boy is the picture of a well-adjusted child. He’s showing his spirit. We need more like him.”

There are several snorts from other patrons, many who now are sure they must be on a prank reality television show.

Ewan appears like the gift from god he is.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Friedman. Your dinner is on us.”

“My dinner should be on them,” he says gesturing toward the couple.

“This is the worst restaurant I’ve ever been at,” monster boy’s mother says. “We’re leaving.” And no doubt going to leave a Yelp review about her mistreatment at the hands of this very prickly-assed waitress. Great.

Someone starts clapping, followed by many, many more.

The woman huffs, her husband hangs his head, and the little boy skips.

“They haven’t paid, do I just let them go?” I ask Ewan.

He nods. “God, yes.”

I serve Mr. Friedman a complimentary crème brulee and his favorite Knob Creek neat. He smiles his gratitude.

“I’m looking for an assistant, Laura. I pay well.”

I smile. He may be cutthroat, but he’s always been nice to me without being salacious. “I’m mostly happy here.”

He raises his snifter. “If you change your mind, let me know. I can use an assistant who’s cool under pressure.”

Maybe I should. I think about that as I’m changing tablecloths and preparing silverware for the next day’s service and hear Ewan singing Rod Stewart songs. “Wake up, Maggie, I think I’ve got something to say to you.” God, I could eat him up. From a distance, I watch him, singing, dancing, laughing. He’s like dessert and I’ve been so hungry lately for sugar. Ewan’s the high caloric sweet I can’t let myself dream about. Feeling somewhat sad, nostalgic, deprived, I grab my purse and disappear into a starry warm night, a shiver trembles over me, but I let it go into the cacophony of the night music of car horns, wind, and the street musician hugging the evening.

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So, I made up the idea of a Smoked Gouda and Sweet Onion Quesadilla with Cilantro Pesto. There are recipes for each of those, but they aren’t matched together. I just think they’d be awesome together. The recipes for both are below.

I love the idea of smoked gouda and sweet onion, but the usual sour cream, salsa and guac? Mundane. That’s why I thought a cilantro chutney might spice things up.

Smoked Gouda and Sweet Onion Quesadilla

Cilantro Chutney

If you try this together, let me know. I may try it in the meantime! Happy eating!