By Muriel Lilker
Having lunch with friends can be lots of fun, right? Not always. Like with this scenario.
“Why don’t we just split it?” asks Abby, as she looks at the check.
“Wait a minute, Abby” says Linda. “Didn’t you have stuffed clams first? That’s extra, you know.”
“It sure is,” says Hilda. “All I had was a Greek salad. A small one because I seem to have lost my appetite lately.”
“I think you found it again in the bread basket,” says Carrie. “All you left there was one small salt stick.”
By now I wish I had gotten ice cream, too. Especially since all of us would be sharing the cost.
That is, until Linda asks “Isn’t dessert extra too? Like the seven-layer cake Fran got.”
“Which I split with everyone,” Fran said. “Look,” she adds, pointing to the small plates in front of us smeared with chocolate.
“C’mon now,” says Carrie, as she picks up the check. “Let’s split it the way we always do. After we check it, that is. I’ll call off every item and you raise your hand if it’s yours.”
“You already know I’m the small Greek salad,” said Hilda.
“We all know that,” says Carrie. “Now, who’s the Chicken Dijon wrap?”
“That’s me,” says Linda.
“Fine, and — I can’t read this — something like Jumbo Buffalo Wings?”
“Remind me never to get that again,” says Fran.
“All right, and did someone get — uh is that Souvlaki?”
“The first and the last time,” I say.
“And who got a grilled veal chop? Abby, was that you? After the clams you had a grilled chop?”
“That’s more than I eat all week,” says Hilda.
“Which leaves me and my cheeseburger,” says Carrie. “So that’s it, girls.”
“What do you mean, that’s it?” says Fran. “Did you check the figures?”
“They look very blurry from here,” Linda says.
“Would you like my magnifying glass?” asks Hilda, as she pulls out her sunglasses, her cell phone, her wallet, her address book, her Rolaids…. “I know it’s here somewhere,” she says.
“Oh I can read it,” Carrie says. “But I’m not sure about the tip. We double the tax, right?”
“I’m not doubling anything,” says Fran. “I had to ask the waiter three times for water before I could take my pill.”
By now everyone starts to take out $20 bills, except Abby, who waves a $50.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just charge it?” asks Carrie.
“Not me,” says Linda. “Haven’t you heard what happens when you do that? Restaurants take your credit card back to the kitchen and copy your number.”
“That’s what happened to my cousin,” says Fran. “Someone bought boots in Montana on her credit card.”
More than ever now, I cling to my $20 bill until the hostess comes along and assures me she can break it.
Lunch out again soon? we ask each other.
Of course.
In fact, I might order the stuffed clams myself.
