I need the eggs

This past November I saw Woody Allen perform at The Carlyle Hotel in New York. It was a birthday present--the most obscene and extravagant of my life.

We met outside of Grand Central. I was dating a lawyer and his office was close by. He was wearing a black suit, light pink shirt and a purple tie. "I always get compliments on this combination," he'd say to me.

Truth be told, he was a bit faggy.

Underneath my thin pea coat and long cardigan, I wore a much-too-short shirt-dress with black tights and pointy flats that looked like gondolas.

Even before we met up, I felt the event had too much hype. Hype is the most dangerous element of an evening. My date was not in high spirits, either. He put his hand on my leg, "Once I get a drink, I'll feel better," he said.

The Carlyle was one of the poshest places I've been to in the city: there was broad, black marble tile, crown molding in every room, and white short-stemmed roses on the tables.

The dining room's decor was "snazzier" than the rest of the hotel. Rococo-meets-modern paintings covered the mint walls. We were escorted to our table that was to the left of the stage. There weren't many people at first--except for an older couple dressed in all beige and sipping cocktails.

The waiter came over to us. "What would you like to drink?"

Normally, we would split a bottle of wine, or at the very least discuss what we were thinking about ordering.

"I'll have a sapphire martini up," he said.

He always ordered shit like that--not just refined drinks but with small flourishes like "up" which he told me means in a martini glass. He was the kind of guy who you envied for the way he ordered a drink and held a cigarette.

The waiter looked up. "And you, miss?"

I didn't say anything. My eyes widened and looked at my date seeming to say, Fuck! What's my line?

"Would you like a glass of wine?" he asked.
I nodded my head.
"Ok..red or white?"
"Red."
"Um..she'll have a glass of the pinot noir," he said.

The waiter left and he looked at me and smiled.

"You're so cute."

After that devastating fail, we ordered $14 Caesar salads to start. A little watery and too heavy on the anchovies, for my liking.

The main course was good--nothing spectacular. I had chicken and he had the lamb. It was very reminiscent of the kind of food I would eat at my grandmother's country club.

"You know, you're supposed to put your silverware like this, if you're finished."
He pointed to his plate as an example.
"Otherwise, it looks gauche."

Our waiter came over and cleared our plates. We ordered another drink--the same for him and a vodka tonic for me.

"You need a new drink, you know," he said.
We'd talked about this before.
"I mean, it's fine, but you have to specify a kind of vodka at least. Not just 'house.'"

The tables rattled and the conversation rose. Woody, wearing a light pink button down and loose khakis, came on stage. Without introductions, the band started to play.

We were both smiling. "You know, if he had a restraining order against us, we'd be violating it right now!" I said.

The waiter brought our drinks. The man sat down a sturdy glass a quarter-filled with vodka and a small bottle of tonic water with a yellow label.

He poured the tonic water and left the bottle.

I took a swig out of the bottle.

"Now that," he said, "was gauche."