Parisian Date night

As per usual, I’ve made my quota of bad choices today. Everyone says that making time for a date night is a usually a very good choice in relationships, and every Tuesday my roomate and I set aside time for a meal. We get so busy, me with my no job, her with her no job, we barely find the time honestly. On a whim today, we decided to do lunch out instead of the usual candlelit pasta and meat ball dinner. You read that right, just one meat ball. I always let her have it because I care about her so and I know how she loves her balls.

Around midday, the traditional time for lunch in Paris, we set out for our reservation. In step, we took the long way across the cobblestones. Approaching the Parisian café, we donned our berets, as is tradition. We had come prepared with our stripped shirts and small moustaches of course, we know when to be culturally sensitive.

I pulled out her seat and she made herself comfy, a paw on the armrest. The waiter approached me with a look of horror over his undersized spectacles and exclaimed, “Ma’am, that is an animal?! We don’t allow her kind here!” I said to him, I said, “Sir! Im-paws-ible! What do you mean HER KIND?” In reply, he whispered, staring down his nose, “Ma’am, a biittchhhhh….”

Well I never. The horror. The audacity. That in this day and age, people would be in terrier to serve my best fur-end and myself. We took our meal in a doggy bag and shook dust on the doorstep as we left. The restaurant had such pet-tential, but our enthusiasm is understandably cur-tail-ed.

Ten out of ten would not do again.

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