Incognito

It was Mom's birthday, or maybe Mother's Day -- one of those days that comes every year and yet for which I am totally unprepared -- and she had requested a family lunch. The three of us had submissively agreed. We would do our best to keep it cordial, of course. This is not to say that we did not care for eachother's company -- we did and do -- but the swiftness with which we ran out of conversation might otherwise be attributed to knockout gas.

Mom had chosen a small French-fusion boutique on the West side of town. Le Whatever. It enjoyed some degree of novelty from the unique brownstone in which it pretensed. Tall windows. High ceilings. Touches of art nouveau. My mother immediately took an above-average interest.

"How much of this do you think is original?" she asked.

"Some." I replied, simultaneously being accurate and a total dick.

We sat down at the usual white-clothed cafe table. Mom was unusually chatty.

"The owner of this place has two other restaurants in town," she grinned, "one of them is very well rated in Zagats and referred to as someplace to 'see and be seen' as long as you 'don't mind another diner's elbow in your souffle'"

She may have said more. We ordered.

"That sounds just amazing!" Mom emoted.

"Oooh, what's in that?"

"May I have a taste?"

Her enthusiasm was equal parts refreshing and disconcerting. It was her day, and we wanted her to be happy. But we also wanted her to be drug-free.

The second act -- the long moments between ordering (talking about what we were going to eat) and eating (not talking; talking about what we were eating) was, under normal circumstances, and opportunity to collect one's thoughts. I found myself daydreaming a bit, listening to clinks of flatware and ambient music, and I must've flickered a self-congratulatory smile after recognizing a somewhat obscure song.

"What song is this?" asked Mom, suddenly gave a shit.

I told her. She nodded thoughtfully.

Each of us was inspired to some degree by the sudden shot of maternal enthusiasm, yet also a bit wary of it. I looked at my father, who shook his head at me almost imperceptibly. I saw in it a whisper:

"I have no fucking clue, my boy. No fucking clue."

The meal was, in fairness, worth talking about, so the banter was sustained. Mom led the way, of course, at this point the most recognizable voice in the restaurant. She chewed with her eyes closed and noted nuances of each dish as she pecked away at plates not technically her own.

"Yours has a hint of morel, doesn't it?" she said, squinting at some unseen hovering fungus.

The display continued until, content and lethargic, we made our way back to the car. After perhaps a block, my (strangely) silent mother betrayed what I assumed was gastrointestinal distress. But what I at first thought was a grimace transformed into an unrestrained shit-eating grin. She burst the silence one last time:

"OK OK I WAS A SECRET SHOPPER BACK THERE!"