Wednesday, October 30, 2002
Service: * *
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * * * *
I'm with Carine. We met in an art supply shop a couple of months back during the annual sale, and flirted vaguely in the checkout queue. We've had coffee before, and it's been made clear that she's not interested in shagging me.
We're together tonight because she wants to introduce me to two of her friends. The idea of matchmaking has entered her mind cos of an SMS Haiku I sent to most of the people on my cellphone. (See below, Thurs 26 Oct 2002, Espresso, Parkhurst.)
"Heather and you would be IDEAL!" she says. She pulls out a company calendar, which has all of the staff members of her pharmaceutical giant company posing with exotic cars. "This is her..." she says, pointing to an elf-like blonde babe with a very pretty roundish face. "She buys children's clothes from the age twelve section. That's how small she is! And she's arty, like you!"
Well, Heather and I might possibly be ideal, but she lives in Port Elizabeth, which is very far away from Somerset West (where Heidi lives).
Then Carine says, "But you've also got to meet Andrea. In fact, strangely enough, she's here tonight, downstairs, doing the wine tasting. She's going to be representing a wine maker from Stellenbosch. Would you like to go winetasting?"
"Actually, I'm really hungry, and haven't eaten all day," I say, "so maybe we could go after I've eaten?"
I order the chicken and beef pockets. The beef is stringy. And gristly. And hard to chew. The chicken tastes mildly like fish. I find a piece of salami on the plate. This is a dish I have to abandon before I've eaten my fill, and I get very grouchy when I'm low on blood sugar.
So we end up not going to the wine tasting. Instead, Andrea arrives, bringing Greg with her. Andrea is a seriously shapely babe, with waist-length curly black hair, large breasts, and a hard mouth, set from years of pain. In her eyes and the set of her jaw, I read 'hardship-endured'. Turns out she's been hijacked recently, amongst other things.
Greg has brought some of his wine, a sauvignon blanc, from the show, and he's got his handy all-in-one wine opening gadget with him. He attracts the waiter. "Do you mind if I open this wine here? I'm from the show downstairs, and these are my clients. I have to give them a sample."
He sits poised with his gadget ready until the waiter comes back. "It's fine," says the waiter, who starts to leave.
"Hang on!" says Greg. "Can we have some glasses?"
So Greg pours, and frivolity ensues. But Greg really can't grasp why I'm happy to nurse my third-of-a-glass of vino. Where he comes from, someone who doesn't drink litres of wine must be ill. "Is my wine THAT bad?" he asks, studying the label and sniffing the cork.
"Nah," I say. "I just don't really drink, and this is enough for me."
He and Andrea polish off the bottle, while Carine and I stay sober.
"I want to learn to tango!" says Andrea.
"I tango," I say. "Took lessons at the Tanz Kafe a few years ago. It's the most erotic dance imaginable."
She stands up and tugs at my arm. "Show me!" she says.
I do a few turns, twisting her lithe frame this way and that, steering her aggressively, the way the Argentineans demand. Her breasts feel good against my chest. But her sadness feels hard against my heart.