Last night, before catching the latest Harry Potter movie, Dr. M and I had dinner at Herbivore, a vegan restaurant that recently opened in Berkeley. I've eaten there twice now and Dr. M has eaten there three times. She likes it more than I do, though my reduced enthusiasm has less to do with the quality of the food (which is actually quite tasty despite the lack of animal suffering) than with the fact that a substantial percentage of the menu is off limits to those of us whose immune systems interpret peanut proteins as toxins.
The service has been fabulous both times I've gone, both efficient and friendly. Both servers I've encountered also did all they could to determine whether my preferred entree involved peanuts. Last night, our server was an attractive, tattooed, riot grrl type who was probably more than a few years younger than I am. When she brought the check back for my signature we had the following conversation (Dr. M was in the restroom during all this):
Her: Can I see your ID, s-[unintelligible]? [Note: My credit card has "See ID" written on the signature block.]
Me: [Taking out ID.] Did you just call me "sir," or "sweetheart"?
Something tells me that if I had called her "sweetheart" the encounter wouldn't have gone as well. But I might try that the next time we go, especially if the server is a dude.
By the way, here's my one-line review of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix:
Emma Watson can't fucking act.