curve ball

Harry hands me a new menu; he watches my eyes carefully. I betray nothing. I like my criticism to be a complete surprise to my clients.

"It's good."

"Really?" He seems surprised.

"Yes. Your graphic designer did a really good job on the art highlights and the layout. The narrow format is good for your limited menu too."

"Really. Dristi? Dristi!"

"What?" a young woman's voice calls from the kitchen.

"Come out here." A tall woman (young, early twenties) walks over to the table, spins a chair around, and sits down. I pretend to glance at my vPod to keep from staring slack-jawed; she smiles at me and I smile back.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi, I'm Doug. Did you design this?"

"Yeah, it's good right?" She gives Harry a Look when she says this.

"Yes, it works quite well for what you have here."

Here is "Hari Kari". The only indian restaurant for fifty miles. Harry could crap in the food, and the local college literati would eat it out of desperation. Northwest Ohio is not particularly famous for ethnic food. It is famous for having been a swamp at one time, and corn.

Dristi turns to Harry, and delivers a calm but rather loud tirade with a proud smile on her face, finally slapping her hand on the table at the last few words and storms off back to the kitchen.

I'm in love.