"Every breath you take, every move you make..." --The Police/and our waiter

We go to The Bastille, which is north of Old Town, for lunch on Saturday. It is Hubby's pick. He is easily suggestible. In fact, I believe it is because we were meeting friends for French food on Thursday that he thought, hmmm, let's go get some French food this weekend! Never mind that it is a french restaurant named after a jail.

So, we go. (He's buying, I'm going!)

And it is part of Open Table's Appetite Stimulus Plan where you can get lunch for some ridiculously cheap price. I mean CHEAP--three courses for $21. Something like that.

That's if you don't drink. Our bar tab comes to more than our food tab. But that's not what I want to say. And the food is REALLY good. Amazingly good. We will definitely be going back to The Bastille. But that's still not what I want to say.

Something happened there that never happens.

The waiter fixated on me like he was Dennis Miller and I was a string of esoteric references.

Like he was a Jonas Brother and I was awkward, poser hair.

Like he was me overworking a simile.

Here was the moth to my candle--but a really intense moth that felt if he didn't flap his fuzzy wings and bash into my flame he just couldn't exist.

Waiterguy, a tall, attractive, knowledgeable server, barely acknowledged Hubby. It wasn't that he was out and out rude to him. Waiterguy just kept his eyes on me. He addressed all comments to me. Even when Hubby asked a question, Waiterguy addressed his answer to me.

Hubby started talking to Waiterguy about the white Burgundy we were drinking and Waiterguy responded briefly but then he rushed off and grabbed a bottle of it to present to me, as if to say, "Here! Honor this bottle by letting your amazing gaze fall upon it. Ahhh."

He was completely consumed with making sure I was happy (and, really, shouldn't all men be worried about my happiness?) and he even started chatting me up about how I should go to France. That I would love it. Lyon, in particular. How Lyon was fantastic, gastronomically speaking, and less expensive than Paris. Then, he brings over a Wine Spectator, open to an article on Lyon, for me to examine. Waiterguy is practically booking our trip (his and mine.)

When Waiterguy goes off to fetch me more wine:

Hubby: He really likes you, doesn't he?

Me, grinning like a Cheshire: He really does, doesn't he?! It's nice, isn't it?

Hubby: *Hmph*

Me: Oh, like I haven't put up with a hundred waitresses falling all over you. For once, it can be me.

And, it's true. Waitresses love my husband. Maybe it's the puppy dog eyes. Maybe it's the southern accent that honeys up a bit when an attractive waitress is leaning over him. I don't know how many waitresses have completely failed to notice my existence while throwing themselves into the task of making him happy or just blatantly throwing themselves at him.

When the bill comes:

Me: I love this place! And the service is so good! You should tip really well.

Hubby: He's getting enough.